


Salt

by wllyn



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 33,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25645051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wllyn/pseuds/wllyn
Summary: After years of searching, the Goblin King discovers a way to bring the Champion of the Labyrinth back to the underground...whether she likes it or not.
Relationships: Jareth/Sarah Williams
Comments: 94
Kudos: 248





	1. Return

Soft warmth surrounded Sarah on all sides. She smiled softly and nestled deeper into the coverlets, riding the blissful half-conscious slipstream state that ran between awake and asleep on those rare mornings when had the chance to sleep in. Sometimes, when she was perfectly suspended between sleep and wakefulness, if she concentrated hard, she could dream about anything she wanted; if she just thought it hard enough and at the same time managed to just tip herself back over the edge of sleep, she would dream about it. Sarah had always been a little awed by this discovery that her conscious mind could, with a little luck, so directly influence her unconscious mind. It occurred to her that she should try this trick now. The time was just right; she was in the perfect state of mind; if she just concentrated on something pleasant, she could let go oh so gently and just drift into the perfect dream…

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t push herself over that edge. Something was bothering her, filling up her unconscious mind with a small tickling feeling of not-rightness. Sarah gripped the pillow in defiance, closing her eyes tighter and tried harder to clear her mind.

That was when she noticed the unusually silky-cool smoothness of the sheets against her skin and felt the weight of heavy coverlets above her. Her sheets were cheap cotton, not this satiny stuff, and her blankets were all packed away under her bed for the summer. Sarah frowned; though, being soft and warm and still half asleep, she was not overly concerned. She cracked open an eye.

The first thing she saw was a wall, covered by a heavy-looking tapestry, like one she had seen pictures of in one of her books on medieval history, except the embroidery on this tapestry did not look old or crumbly. It was densely packed with tiny stitches, the colors rich and the strange, intricate patterns twisting in an uneven, flickering light. 

Then it was as if someone had flicked a switch and turned her ears back on- she became aware of the crackling, popping sound—a fire? Just over the edge of the bed, she could make out a patch of bare stone floor, polished so smooth it reflected flickering flames. Her frown deepened. She sat up.

All at once, she was suddenly aware of the enormous size of the room, the chill of a draft as she surfaced from under the blankets, a glimpse of the fire flicking in a huge, impossibly white stone fireplace—and then the sudden, undeniable sensation of someone sitting next to her. Sharply she turned her head—and screamed.

A pair of eyes, black, blue, and glittering, blinked quickly in surprise, then narrowed, as if irritated that they had condescended to react.

She stifled her cry quickly with a hand. It echoed briefly before dying out. Moments passed with the crackling fire the only sound to break the silence. The man’s expression was unreadable. Her eyes flicked back and forth over him, searching for some flaw or inconsistency that would prove that this could not be real.

But she could find none. The Goblin King sat before her. 

He was different than he had been years ago. Less ostentatious. No bizarre eye makeup, no glitter, and his hair was no longer so spikey and uneven. It hung around his face, long and blond but otherwise ordinary. His shirt was white and billowing but simply cut. His eyebrows, though, still veered upwards strangely, and his eyes were mismatched, just as she remembered. There was a less overt, but no less evident, air of the unnatural about him. Somehow, the subdued look combined with this aura of strange otherness made him seem even more alien.

Finally, his lips twisted up into a faint smirk.

“Not the reaction I usually get,” he said dryly, “in these circumstances.” 

Something in his tone steadied her skipping heart and gave her back her voice. “And just what kind of circumstances are these?” Flashes of her last meeting with him were coming back to her. Her own words echoed in her mind: you have no power over me. She held onto those words, that feeling of triumph, let it ground her, block out her unease.

His smirk deepened as he sidestepped the question. “What a pleasure to see you again, dear Sarah,” he said loftily, “After all these years. You’re looking well.”

“What am I doing here Goblin King?”

He lifted an eyebrow archly. “Perhaps you can answer that question for yourself, Sarah.” His tone was light and teasing.

“Really? I don’t think I can.” As long as she was angry she didn’t have to think. “I’ve made no wish…the word “wish” hasn’t been part of my vocabulary since I beat you.” She put a little more emphasis into the last few words than was strictly necessary. “Why am I here?”

His eyebrow went back down at that; his brow furled in irritation at her reminder of their last meeting.

“Perhaps I wanted to see you again,” he said, striving to keep his tone light. “Catch up. Ask after the young Tobias.”

“Seven years later? After you tried to steal him again?” He said nothing. “And you thought to best way to have a conversation with me was to whisk me away while I was asleep—what if I didn’t want to talk to you? I don’t; especially not in your damn bedroom!” She was surprised when she saw him flinch slightly at her words. His jaw had tightened. Was that a flush of color in his cheeks?

Another thought crossed her mind, and looking down at the thin t-shirt she wore as a nightdress, she hurriedly shielded herself with her arms. “God, and I’m barely dressed…I don’t know what to say about any of this!”

“You seem to be finding words easily enough,” he said. There was a slight hiss to his voice, an undercurrent of anger that froze her reply on her tongue. She swallowed and began again.

“What do you want with me, Goblin King?” She tried to keep her tone somewhat respectful.

He smiled then, and there was something in that smile, a flicker of something hopeful and expectant, that startled and then chilled her more than his anger had done. 

“Call me Jareth,” he said, his tone a little to earnest to be casual. 

It was such a simple statement. Three words that could have been merely an olive branch, a courtesy…but his voice sounded so strained. There was too much warmth in it, and the request was so weirdly intimate. 

More scenes from their final meeting were coming back to her now. Fear me, he had said to her—no, he had begged her. Fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave… Words, she had thought, to distract her and tempt her, nothing more. But now, Sarah felt as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped. Her stomach clenched. 

“I…well…” She stammered, no longer sure what to say. The atmosphere in the room had changed somehow, become more dangerous in a way she couldn’t articulate. The Goblin King’s eyes burned into hers as she struggled to reply. His expression was growing dark.

“How did you get me here?” she finally asked, her voice soft and non-confrontational. She deliberately avoided calling him by any name. “I thought there were rules…I mean…” She trailed off.

He continued to look at her silently for a few moments before replying. 

“You’re not really here,” he said. “Not entirely. This is all a dream…the closest a dream could possibly get to being real. It’s the best I could do.” He paused. “It took me a long time to work it out.” 

She had no response for that. She could only sit with the twisting in her stomach getting worse and worse as he continued to stare at her, brooding. 

“Come now Sarah,” he said finally, and leaned in close. He was inches from her face now, close enough for her to see the tension in the muscles of his face and throat, to feel his breath. His smirk had an edge of desperation to it. “Is it really so terrible to see me again?”

She did not reply. High, soft mounds of pillow behind her prevented her from leaning away, so she just sat there, uneasy at his closeness and thoroughly confused. 

Suddenly he lunged even closer, bent his face over hers, and kissed her.


	2. Rejection

For a moment she was so shocked that she could not do anything. She sat amazed, eyes wide open, not moving a muscle as he mashed his lips against hers and leaned in closer, pressing his body against hers. A hand settled on her shoulder and started wandering slowly along her collarbone.

That brought back to herself. Pulling back was not an option—she was caught between him and a small mountain of pillows. With difficulty, she braced herself against them and pushed against his chest, trying to to get free. His hands grabbed her wrists and pushed them back against the pillows. Fear fluttered in the pit of her stomach at the ease with which he was able to hold her down, and it was making her angry. She twisted her head back and forth, making angry noises against his lips. Finally she broke free and she turned to the side, gasping for air.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, breathless. 

He ignored her and dove down again, capturing her lips in his and kissing her passionately. His fingers teased the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrists even as he held them back

She broke free again.

“Stop it!” she yelled. “Let go…” His lips cut her off again. Furious, she screamed against his mouth and bit down hard on his lower lip.

He roared in surprise and pain and sat back, bringing his hands to his lip. Wasting no time, Sarah sprang for the side of the bed. She managed to get one leg on the ground, but the other was still tangled in the sheets—the bed was high off the ground and it was difficult to keep her balance. As she fought to get her leg free, his hand closed her wrist with a bruising grip. She winced and bit back a cry as he yanked her towards him so that she half fell back onto the bed.

“How _dare_ you!” he yelled, his face inches from hers and contorted in anger. Blood trickled down his chin.

“How dare _you_!” She tugged angrily at her wrist. _“_ Let go of me, you sick—” 

A hard, cruel blow caught her in the cheekbone, cutting her off. She let out a short, wordless cry of pain and froze. 

Then he released her arm, and she curled into a ball and brought her hands, shaking, to clutch her cheek. It felt like that part of her face had exploded. 

For a moment, all she could do is lie there, her face on fire and her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest. Through the blood was roaring in her ears she listened fearfully for any word or signs of movement from the Goblin King—but for there were none. The only sounds in the room were the soft, ragged gasps of her breathing as she took deep, shuddering lungfuls of air.

_This is so wrong_ she thought. _He’s all wrong. I don’t remember him being this way before._ She had been frightened of him before, of course, when she was running the Labyrinth. But it had been a safe kind of fear. She remembered now that there had been something about him that had attracted her to him as well, a feeling that had budded and fluttered within her belly and made her feel awkward and uncomfortable when he drew close. She had been barely more than a child, with no experience with those kinds of things, and he had been so mysterious, so attentive. Afterwards, she had had dreams…

But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She had changed, grown up; she hadn’t thought about him in more than a decade! What had he grown into? Or had he been like this all along, only she hadn’t seen it? 

She tried to focus instead on how she might get out. _He said this was a dream_ , she thought. _That means I can wake up. What would it take to wake me up?_ After the punch she just took, she knew that pinching herself was not going to get the job done.

_Ok—if I can’t wake myself up, maybe I can wait him out. If I can get to the Labyrinth, I might be able to hide._ She glanced furtively at the room’s heavy wooden door—it was maybe fifteen feet from the bed? Could she get to it before him? Was it locked?

Hearing the low groan of weight shifting on a mattress, she flinched—he was getting up—he was coming around to her side of the bed. She scrambled backwards in the bed, pushing through the pillows, but very soon she felt the headboard against her back and there was nowhere else to go. She glared up at the Goblin King.

“Stay away from me!” 

He paused, leaving a few feet of distance between them. She had expected him to be either apologetic or still angry, but the look on his face was one of exasperation, how she might look at a puppy that chewed on her shoes.

“Sarah,” he said, sounding disappointed and a little resentful. “This is not how I envisioned our first night together.” Her stomach twisted. Where did he get off saying things like that after what he had done—what he was _doing._ She couldn’t look at him. She heard him take another step forward and flattened herself against the headboard. He sighed, and said patiently. “Let me help you, and I will explain.”

She did not reply, but she was too afraid of setting him off to move away when he closed the distance between them and bent down. Gently, he took hold of her hands and pulled them away from her throbbing cheek. She shook as he touched her, but forced herself not to pull away.

He placed her hands carefully in her lap and smoothed the tangled blankets before sitting down on the bed in front of her. As he moved around her, Sarah kept herself as still as possible, sitting stiffly and staring back at him, wary eyes brimming with unshed tears. When he reached out a hand towards her face she flinched, and a tear shook loose and rolled down her cheek.

He frowned, as though the sight annoyed him, but he again said patiently, “I only wish to help.”

He reached out for her face again. With difficulty, she kept herself still as his fingers brushed against the throbbing, already swelling place where he had struck her. She winced as he pressed firmly, but surprisingly his touch didn’t hurt--where his fingers traced over her cheek, they left behind a comforting warmth. A strange, though not unpleasant tingling sensation gradually replaced the pain. When he took his hand away she touched her cheek and was surprised to feel only a slight tenderness, as if the injury had happened weeks instead of minutes ago. He chuckled.

“Sarah, Sarah,” he sighed, smiling sadly and shaking his head. “I warned you I could be cruel.” 

Her mouth twisted, and more tears fell down her face. “What is going on?” she asked helplessly, holding up her shaking hands. “What am I doing here?”

He smiled at her fondly and patted her hand. “Allow me to explain.”

He began an elaborate tale, starring himself as the hero. After the first few grandiose sentences she began to tune a lot of it out, but she got the gist. His proposal to her in the strange Escher room had been a sincere offer of partnership. How he had been shocked when she turned him down, but assumed she had misunderstood him due to her youth and inexperience. How he kept watch over her as she grew up—this was where she had turned away from him and stared into the fire—but how he had been unable to make any contact with her. It was forbidden, he said, for him to contact former runners. They were protected by rules he was bound to obey.

He stopped at this point, as if waiting for her to prompt him with questions. When she said nothing, did not even look at him, he continued, sounded somewhat disappointed.

“I searched for thirteen years,” he said, “until I found a way around the rules. So that I could see you again.” He stopped again and stared at her, as though waiting for a reaction.

“Don’t you understand now, Sarah?” he finally said. “Don’t you see everything I’ve done for you?” He looked at her impatiently.

“For me?” she asked, her voice rough from screaming and tears.

“Yes, Sarah,” he said urgently, “For you, it was all for you. From the beginning! Do you think I answer the call of every fifteen year old girl?”

“You didn’t have to take Toby?” she asked, incredulous. “You took him…because you wanted to?”

“No, Sarah. Because _you_ wanted it. I told you then. I only ever did what you asked!”

“What I asked?” Anger rose inside her again, overwhelming her fear. “What I wanted?! You can’t possibly believe that!”

“Can’t you see that everything I have done, all of it, has been for you?”

“You did it for yourself!” She cried. “ _You_ wanted me, so you took me. How can you sit there and tell me that I want this?”

“You still do not understand,” he said urgently. “I did it for love.”

“How can you say that?” She was crying again, tears falling freely down her cheeks. “All you’ve done since you brought me here is hurt me! How can you believe that stalking me and kidnapping my little brother—and now _me_ —has anything to do with love?”

He stared at her, the color rising in his face. “Why do you insist on not understanding?” he asked heatedly.

Sarah looked into his blazing eyes and could only shake her head. She wanted to put her hands over her ears and pretend this wasn’t happening. “Send me home,” she said, sobbing, “I want to wake up--please, Goblin King--” His hand whipped out and he struck her across the face. She screamed.

“Stop calling me that!” he roared. Sarah cowered and cradled her face. Warm blood smeared against her palm; one of his rings must have torn the skin. A split second later he was grabbing her shoulders, bending over her, trying to kiss her again. She struggled.

“No!” she screamed. “No—stop it—God damn it, stop! I don’t love you!” 

He stopped as soon as the words left her mouth, letting go of her shoulders as if she had burned him. Not stopping to see his reaction, she scrambled for the edge of the bed preparing to launch herself towards the door.

But she then stopped--a chime was sounding. It was delicate, barely audible, but strangely penetrating and seemed to come from everywhere at once. The Goblin King frowned darkly as the sound faded. He put out an arm as if to grab her and she shrank back, but he stopped when the chimes sounded a second time, then again.

A soft light caught her eye—she raised her hands to her face in wonder. Her skin was glowing.

“There will be another night,” he said, his voice strangely thick. 

She was still staring at her hands. As the chimes continued, they were rapidly becoming transparent. Whatever magic he had used to bring her here, it was ending.

“Do you hear me? Your nights belong to me now, Sarah.”

The last chime sounded; when the echoes faded.. She sighed gratefully and disappeared.


	3. Protection

When Sarah had returned from her first journey to the Underground, fresh from her victory over the Goblin King, her family, friends and teachers had all noticed the change in her. She entered 9 th grade at the beginning of September very much the same as she had been when she graduated middle school two months before--a fanciful, quick-tempered girl who kept a stuffed animal in her locker, wandered off during gym class to weave flower crowns, and swept through the hallways with the affected dignity of a fairy tale princess. Though she’d always been popular, the group of girls and more romantically-inclined boys who used to hang on her every word had already started drifting away from her towards the end of eight grade. Now they were all high school freshmen, terrified to find themselves at the bottom of the pecking order and desperate to appear “grown up,” hardly any of them would speak to her. Her teachers shrugged their shoulders and rolled their eyes indulgently—a talented, intelligent girl, certainly, but definitely a late bloomer. No doubt she would be a delight by the time she was a junior, but until then they would have to be patient with her high-blown fancies and haughty disdain for her more “mundane” classmates.

But when she returned from fall break she seemed, suddenly, to have done all her “blooming” practically overnight. Her whole manner had changed. Where before she had been a someone over eager participant in her classes, especially English, now she rarely raised her hand, although if called on she was usually able to give the answer as readily as she used to. She dressed differently. She traded in her flowy, peasant blouses with ruffles and lace for a wardrobe that consisted mostly of plain black shirts and jeans, a big hit with the theater and journalism clubs, where she started to make new friends. 

She hadn’t entirely lost her flair for the fantastical and dramatic. She still swooned over Shakespeare and seventeenth century ballads in English class, and when the drama club announced their winter production of “The Miracle Worker,” she was one of the first to sign up (although that spring, when the upperclassman insisted on staging “A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she’d protested hotly and refused to participate, even in the stage crew). It was just that she was much more careful about when and where she allowed herself to let it out, saving it all for when she was on stage.

Karen had been deeply relieved by Sarah’s sudden sprint towards adulthood, and even more pleased by the garbage bag full of books and toys that Sarah had abruptly dropped off in Toby’s room one morning, offering only the words, “I don’t need this junk anymore” as an explanation. Coming on the heels of her constant complaining about her baby brother stealing her toys, Karen interpreted the gesture as Sarah’s olive branch after nearly three years of tantrums and cold indifference. Although Sarah hadn’t meant it as one, she did cautiously begin accepting Karen’s tentative overtures of affection—packed lunches, mended her clothes, little gifts that Karen would bring home after running errands (“I saw it and thought of you—could you use it?”). When she’d approached Karen sheepishly one afternoon after she’d gotten home from school, asking for help painting over the wallpaper in her room, Karen was almost tearful. She drove Sarah to the hardware store, helped her chose one of the twenty-seven shades of white available, and together they’d donned old t-shirts and holey jeans, pushed all the furniture and knick-knacks to the center of her room, and completely covered every inch of the dark green, forest-themed wallpaper with several layers of light cream latex paint. Sarah’s father had stayed late at the office that night, and so instead of one of Karen’s sensible, home-cooked meals they’d ordered pizza and watched a movie, both of them sitting together on the same couch. They didn’t develop a mother-daughter relationship overnight—they weren’t even very affectionate towards each other—but it was something to build on. A truce. Even her father, who, due to his job, saw her mostly only on the weekends, noticed the changes and was pleased, relieved that Sarah seemed to have put the divorce and her mother’s abandonment before her.

Everyone seemed happier with these changes—including, at least outwardly, Sarah herself. Her English teacher, though, who had heard a lot about Sarah from the 8 th grade teacher and had looked forward to having the girl in her class this year, was worried for her, although she was not sure what exactly she was worried about. Sudden changes in behavior were not, in her experience, generally a good sign when it came to young people, but then again it was hard to say exactly what the problem could be. Although Sarah’s grades had dipped a bit at first, before Thanksgiving break she had recovered and remained a high honor role student. She seemed happy, and was making new friends easily now that she seemed to have put the insufferable arrogance of her early adolescence behind her. 

But there were times when her English teacher could swear that there was an anxiety to the girl that that hadn’t been there before—a watchfulness, as though she was constantly on alert for something. Her class journal entries, which had previously been sincere and confiding, if a little effusive, were now shorter, carefully worded—guarded, even. When she approached Sarah after class one day and asked her if there was anything wrong, she could have sworn that, for a split second, Sarah looked panicked, like she was caught off guard and thinking frantically of something to say. But then she had only smiled, and said of course not, and hurried out the door after one her new friends. The woman kept a close eye on her for the rest of the year, never able to shake the feeling that something had to be wrong, somewhere, but was eventually forced to admit that the girl was just growing up, albeit a lot faster and more suddenly than most.

The truth behind her sudden metamorphosis was, of course, known to no one but Sarah herself. The fact was that Sarah Williams had not just returned from the Underground with a more mature outlook on life and an abhorrence for anything fairy or folktale related. She also possessed a much better understanding of just how dangerous the world could be, and the conviction that, deep down, despite all her efforts and protests to the contrary, she was a bad person.

She had beaten the Labyrinth, yes, but only barely, and the more she thought about the more painfully aware she became of how lucky she’d been. She’d barely known what she was doing from one moment to the next. How much of her victory was due to her own strength, her own bravery, determination and skill, or even that of her friends? How much had been due to pure chance, or due forces beyond her knowledge or control? She had saved Toby—but did that even count if she had been the one to put him in danger in the first place?

The defeat of the Goblin King was something that she endeavored to think of less often, but which troubled her even more. She was a child, and fairy tales and love poems were poor substitutes for experience She had no frame of reference to help her understand the strange tension that accompanied the fear she felt when she thought of him, to explain the guilt that would overtake her when she thought of the look on his face during their final confrontation, how it fell when she refused him and the Underground had seem to collapse around her. Her fear, and the other unresolved feelings that she stuffed down and tried to forget drove her to develop a passion that proved to be the only exception to her newfound, almost pathological aversion to the magical and fantastic: “apotropaic magic,” the use of magic charms, talismans, and gestures to ward off evil.

For the next two years, without any regard for religion or culture, she amassed an impressive collection of jewelry, good luck charms, and peculiar personal habits that she worked very hard to keep secret from those around her. She walked around with pockets full of bread and salt, insisting, when Karen complained about the laundry, that it was to help her “get into character.” She embraced any and all superstitions she came across, flinging salt vigorously over her left shoulder, refusing to walk under ladders or open umbrellas inside, and nearly had a panic attack one night after dinner when she’d dropped the broom, though Karen could not get her to explain why she would be so upset about “expecting company.” When Karen discovered a pair of large metal scissors stashed under the mattress of Toby’s crib and had a conniption fit, Sarah insisted that she had only been trying to keep him safe, and, when pressed, lamely explained that she thought it was the place Toby was least likely to find them.

She took a beautiful wooden jewelry chest her father had gotten her for her birthday and filled it with protective charms and talismans: several old iron horseshoes she’d picked up at garage sales, a cheap, stamped-metal Hand of Fatima charm that bend badly in one corner after she’d left it on during gym class, a string of glass  _ nazar  _ beads to guard against the evil eye, an ahnk, four different crosses (a crucifix, a Celtic cross, the Franciscan cross, and a cross made out of wire and real iron nails), sprigs of dried herbs like lavender and St. John’s Wort bound in twine,  _ lots  _ of pentagrams, a bundle of twigs she’d taken from an ash tree in the courtyard of her school, a wand made out of rowan that she’d bought on ebay, and a ratty-looking St. Brigid’s cross that she’d woven herself out of some flat grasses she found growing by the creek behind her house. Her walls were hung with posters and drawings of protective symbols, and she had to assure the occult-wary Karen that it was all abstract art. 

She would carry these charms with her, around her neck (though always under her shirt) or in her pocket, relying on one for weeks before putting it down forever and choosing another, the same way other girls her age went through television shows or brands of lip gloss, until the end of her 10 th grade year. That summer, she’d carefully packed it all up into the wooden jewelry chest and stuck it under her bed. For a few weeks afterward, she felt a little anxious without it—exposed. But the weeks turned to months. She went about her life, went back to school, dove headfirst into a grueling junior year as the lead in both the fall and spring drama club productions, AP classes, SAT tests, and early college applications. Nothing happened—and if something was going to happen, she understood now that the drawings and trinkets wouldn’t really do anything to prevent it. 

Still, she found it hard to let go completely. When she went off to college—on the west coast, horrifying her father and sending Karen into alternating paroxysms of pride and anxiety—the chest was one of the few personal items beyond basic necessities that she took with her. Through dorm rooms, rental houses, and her first apartment, she kept it under her bed—out of sight, but close by in case she should need it.

And so, when Sarah woke up on that in middle of that horrible night, after she’d stumbled, sobbing, to the bathroom to get a cold washcloth for her face, after she’d stared into the mirror in a mix of horror and confusion as the red, puffy welts on her face, just beginning to bruise, slowly began to disappear, as the cut his ring had left on her cheek stopped bleeding and closed before her eyes, after her face had returned to normal and the only remaining sign of her injuries a dull, throbbing ache that she could feel all the way down to her bones, after she’d grabbed hold of each side of the sink and lowered her head and sobbed for what felt like hours, she carefully wiped her face, walked back to bed, knelt down, and drew the worn, scuffed wooden chest out from under her bed. 

She opened it, and laid out its contents, one by one, on her rumpled bedspread. Then, one by one, she took the yellowed papers, and hung them on the wall all around her bed. The cross made of iron nails she put on and tucked under her nightshirt. The other jewelry she hung from thumbtacks from every window frame in the apartment. She nailed the horseshoe over her front door. The crumbling bundles of St. John’s wort and lavender she hung by her bed. The ash and rowan wood she put in her nightstand, along with some paper salt packets from the restaurant where she worked. She raided her pantry and carefully poured thick lines of rice and salt across her threshold and the sills of every window in the apartment. When she was finished, hours later, sunlight was just barely starting to filter through the cracks in the window-blinds. As she anxiously surveyed her work, a loud, sudden buzzing from her nightstand almost made her jump out of her skin. Shana was calling her--Sarah remembered then that it was Wednesday morning. It was past six, and she and Shana were supposed to open together nearly an hour ago.

Sarah didn’t move. She stared at the phone until it finally stopped ringing, then she climbed back into bed, clutched the iron nail cross until the dull points dug into the palms of her hands, and cried. 


	4. Dinner

She woke up all at once, jolting from deep sleep into heart-pounding panic. It felt like all her senses had been switched on at the same time, and her mind was flooded—sweat-dampened sheets clinging to her body—dim shapes around her still blurry as she frantically rubbed her eyes—the flickering light of a fire—the crackling and snapping as it burned—the scent of woodsmoke, and underneath it a strange, woodsy smelling cologne. 

She was back in the Underground.

She shrieked and launched herself out of the bed. Her legs tangled in the sheets and she dragged half the covers over the side with her and almost fell. Wild-eyed, panting, she clutched at a tapestry to try and steady herself as she scanned the room. No one on the bed—at the door—by the fire. It took several more passes of the room before it registered in her mind—he wasn’t there. She was alone.

_There will be another night_ , he had told her, when the spell had finally ended and she had started to disappear. _Your nights belong to me now._ But it had been more than a week. When he hadn’t called her back the next night or the night after that, she had started to hope. Sarah swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump in her throat.

She needed to sit down. The bed was out of the question—she didn’t even want to look at it—but there was a small table and chairs by the fireplace. She tottered over and sat heavily in the closest one, burying her head in her trembling hands and resting her elbows on the table and tried to take long, slow breaths.

Finally, when her hands had stopped shaking and it no longer felt like her heart was trying to burst through her chest, she was able to sit up and take stock.

She did not remember the table from last time. It was covered in a red cloth, and heavily laden with l covered dishes and patters, as well as silver plates and utensils—place settings for two. Her stomach twisted. A second chair, ornately carved from dark wood, sat on the opposite side. 

As she looked around, she caught her reflection in one of the polished domes. She put her hand to her cheek, struck by what she didn’t see rather than what she did. She could still trace the places where her injuries should have been—would have been, if they had not slowly faded away the morning after, disappearing within a few hours of waking up, leaving no signs of her harrowing experience the night before other than a dull ache where the marks had been. It had only been a week; there should still have been a livid, purple-blue bruise just under her left eye—the gash where his ring had torn the skin along her cheekbone, there should have been a scab there. Instead, all she saw in the reflection that looked back at her was pale, unbroken skin. Her eyes had dark, haggard circles beneath them and the nightgown she wore seemed to hang from her shoulders, signs of all the sleep and meals she had been missing lately.

A curled piece of paper on the table caught her eye, and she picked it up. It was a note, written on thick cream-colored paper in a spidery black script: _My dear Sarah,_ it said, _Forgive my absence. I will join you shortly. J_.The letter “J” was larger and more embellished than the other words, with an ornate line and little curlicues underneath it. If she hadn’t been so terrified, she would have rolled her eyes.

_What the hell?_ A dinner invitation? She scrubbed angrily at the tears that had been beginning to form. No way in hell was she going to sit down to dinner with that monster. She crushed the note in her hand, flung it into the fire, then turned darted for the door.

It was large and heavy, thick beams of wood bound by strips of iron—and it was locked. She tugged and tugged on the metal ring that served as its handle, but the door didn’t even move. She slammed the iron ring down and it clanked uselessly against the iron plate that backed it.

  1. She took a deep breath and turned to scan the walls. Everywhere, except near the fireplace, they were covered in thickly embroidered tapestries. There had to be windows beneath them, didn’t there? As she got closer, she cringed as she saw the scenes the tapestries depicted—strange, morbid tableaus of battles, animals being hunted, and what looked like an execution. A headless body knelt before a block, it’s neck spewing gouts of blood an improbable distance while a man nearby held up the severed head for a crowd to see. There were even little streams and drips of blood, carefully worked in tiny stitches, falling from the head. Disgusting—how could he stand looking at that stuff as he went to sleep?



Feeling a draft, she frantically rummaged among them and discovered a window—so long it stretched from the floor almost to the ceiling, and very thin. Far too thin for her to fit through, she saw the disappointment, but she could still look out. It was dark—she couldn’t see very far, but she could make out the drawbridge and moat below her, lit up by flickering torches. His room must overlook the front of the castle. The moat looked much wider than the one she remembered, maybe as much as twenty feet across, and were those goblins patrolling the parapet a few stories down? They were not as small as she remembered either—they looked at least as big as she was.

Her breath caught in her throat when she caught a glimpse of the Labyrinth. As her eyes adjusted, she could see its tall stone walls in the moonlight, rising into the distance. It looked so beautiful. She felt a strange sense of longing; as terrified as she knew she had been all those years ago, the labyrinth now seemed to her to be a place much preferable to the one she was in now. Here memories of it were full of friends, adventure—victory. Simple challenges that, while difficult, she had known how to face, and had overcome. Her throat tightened when she thought of the friends she had made there. She was alone now—there was no one to help her here. 

Just then, she heard a sound at the door—the rasp of a key in the lock—and whirled around, heart pounding. Her eyes moved frantically over the room—what should she do? Hide? Rush the door? As the door started to swing open, she darted for the table, snatched a knife from beside one of the covered dishes and held it at her side behind the folds of her nightgown.

The Goblin King entered.

“Sarah!” he called in merry voice, smiling broadly. He was dressed differently tonight, wearing an ornate belted tunic over his usual tights and white undershirt, and the way his blond hair hung around his face seemed carefully arranged. “I’m so sorry to have kept you. Did you get my…” he trailed off and Sarah followed his gaze to a smoking scrap of parchment at the edge of the fireplace. She tensed, fearing his anger, but he continued to start at the note, his face blank. He seemed to be deciding how to react. Finally, he smirked. “Ah. I see you did.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. There was something artificial in his manner; he was making a show of being amused, but underneath the merriment in his eyes lurked something she could not read. Stay calm, she told herself. _Keep breathing. Stay calm_. _Remember last time—don’t let him see that you’re afraid of him._

Still smirking, he gestured to the table with exaggerated politeness. “Shall we?” He took a step towards the table—towards her.

Immediately she backed away from him. _Stay calm_ , she shrieked at herself inside her head as her heart raced, and she forced herself to stop backing up after a few steps. She wanted to press herself into the wall and disappear. What the hell was she going to do?

The Goblin King stopped, tilting his head and looking at her from the corners of his eyes.

“I promise not to bite,” he said dryly. Slowly, as though he was deliberately trying not the alarm her, he walked to the table and stood next to one of the chairs. He was looking at her expectantly. _Stay calm_ , she thought. _Don’t make him angry. Just do what he says until you get a chance to…_ She squeezed the knife in the hand for courage. Forcing one foot in front of the other, still clutching the knife, she moved to the other chair.

Together, they sat down.

“Are you hungry?” he asked in a carefully casual voice as he removed the cover from one of the dishes. Steam rose, and Sarah smelled garlic and something green.

He was looking at her—she had to reply, but there was no way in hell that she was eating any of this food.

“Not really.” The quiver in her voice appalled her. _Keep it together._

He looked up, his eyes sharp. “Nonsense.” There was an edge to his voice, too. She fumbled for something to put him off, some kind of stalling tactic—she could _not_ eat that food.

“I thought humans couldn’t eat fairy food,” she said quickly, settling for the truth. 

The Goblin King raised his eyebrows, lowering the serving spoon he had picked up back into the dish where it had come from. “Fairy food?” he asked, his voice carefully blank.

“Yes. That’s what you are, isn’t it? Some kind of fairy? It’s the closest thing I could find.”

He smiled. It seemed genuine—fond, almost, like she was a dog who had just performed an interesting trick. “In a way, I suppose. In a way, yes. And you are correct—in some circumstances, eating the food of this realm _could_ , perhaps, have some...shall we say, less than desirable effects on you.”

Sarah thought of the peach then, and suppressed a shudder.

“And in _these_ circumstances?” she asked, keeping her voice light.

“As I told you…” he paused, seeming reluctant to reference their previous encounter. “…before, you are essentially in a dream. While the magic I have employed does give you the ability to act on the things of this world and be acted upon by them as though you were physically present, you are not, strictly speaking, really here.” As he spoke, he began spooning portions of the dishes onto their plates.

“So…”

“‘So,’ by the magic that brings you here, you remain irrevocably tied to your own realm. Enchanting you with some other spell, while possible, would essentially be pointless. Inevitably you would return to your own realm and the magic would dissipate and have no further effect on you.”

“Really?” she said politely. Her mind was whirring again, searching for some other excuse to avoid eating. It sounded plausible, but then again of course it would.

“I swear,” he said grandly. “On my true name. Although I should add that, traditionally speaking, accepting hospitality does incur a debt of a kind.” He eyed her smugly as he used a pair of ornate silver tongs to dish spears of some kind of green vegetable onto her plate. “Such as, for example, an obligation to be courteous to one’s host.”

_Courteous? Really?_ “Does that apply to people you kidnap?”  
  


The warmth vanished from his face like a candle being snuffed out; he studied her through narrowed eyes. Stupid, stupid! He’d been so gregarious—it had just slipped. She could feel the blood draining from her face.

Then the cold look vanished as quickly as it had come, and he was smirking again.

“I’m not certain,” he said, pulling the cover off the largest dish in the center of the table. “I’ll have to consult my etiquette manuals.”

Then he froze, staring at the dish he had uncovered—a large cut of meat on a platter surrounded by frilly greenery. His eyes were fixed on the table just to the side of the platter.

The knife…


	5. Negotiation

She shoved her chair back from the table and stood with such violence that the chair flew back and slid across the stone floor. Her chest was heaving.

“Sarah.” His eyes were hard; he hadn’t moved. The warning in his voice made her blood run cold.

“Shut up!” She clutched the knife at her side, not bothering to try and conceal it anymore. Oh God, this was so stupid! He was between her and the door, he was so much bigger than she was, he was  _ magic _ for crying out loud. What was she going to do? She flinched back as he rose and stepped back from the table. “Stay away from me!”

“Is dinner and a little conversation really too much to ask?” he asked bitterly.

“Oh of course, how silly of me.” She could hear her voice getting higher as her panic rose. “Why else would you stalk me, kidnap me—” 

“Don’t be so dramatic!” he snapped. 

He was getting angrier; his face was flushed and his eyes were flashing, just like he’d been the last time. She was so, so screwed, but she couldn’t stop herself from babbling. “It’s the truth! And you  _ really _ don’t like that, do you? You can’t stand to be told what you’re actually doing.” She was sobbing now, terrified, and acutely aware of the bed only a few paces behind her. He took a step towards her, and all her bravado vanished—she screamed and brandished the knife like a talisman. “Please don’t hurt me!” Tears streamed down her cheeks, and it was all she could do to stop from breaking down into sobs.

He stopped, a wary look on his face. “Sarah,” he finally said. His face was not exactly friendly, but did not look nearly as angry as he had been. “Sarah, I do not wish to hurt you.” He took another step towards her, hands held out to his sides.

Sarah closed her eyes, keeping the knife thrust out between them. Her breathing was very fast now, and an awful frantic feeling was building in her chest, like she couldn’t get enough air. She heard the soft footfalls on the stone floor as he closed the distance between them. It didn’t matter. There was nowhere to run or hide; even if she managed to cut him with the knife, it would only make him angrier. His hands gasped her wrist and fingers and she felt him take the knife from her hands. She collapsed to the ground and buried her face in her hands. That was it. There was nothing she could do—she had no say in what was going to happen next. 

“Sarah.” His voice was different than she had even heard it before. Almost warm. She opened her eyes. He had crouched down so that his eyes were on a level with hers, and he was looking at her with a strange expression on his face—curiosity and a detached kind of concern.

He studied her like that for a moment before sighing and getting up. Sarah stared at the polished stone floor in front of her and tried to breath slowly, fighting to force the air into her lungs. She heard him moving away from her back towards the bed, heard the rustle of cloth.

When he came to her again, he held a pillow in each hand. He held one out to her; dumbfounded, she accepted it mechanically.

“Come here,” he said, in that same almost-kind voice. He offered her his hand to help her up, but quickly withdrew it when she cringed away.

“Come,” he said again, his mouth pressed in a thin line. He was impatient, but seemed to be making an effort to restrain himself. He gestured towards the fire. “There is a draft—you should come sit where it is warm.” When she only eyed him warily and did not move, his eyes narrowed. “I only wish to talk,” he said.

She took a moment to consider her complete lack of other options before following him to the fireplace and sitting across from him on the pillow he had given her. The warmth of the flames felt good on her skin; she suddenly noticed that she was very cold.

He rummaged around the room before coming to join her, bringing with him the two goblets of wine from the table. Sitting, he held one out to her.

“No,” she said quickly, flinching as though he had offered her a live snake.

“You’re white as chalk and you’re shivering,” he said, irritated. “Take it.” 

She bit back an angry retort and took the goblet, holding it in front of her with both hands but making no move to drink it. That seemed to irritate him even further, but he said nothing, only taking a long drink from his own goblet before turning to face her.

“I believe,” he said carefully, as though delivering a practiced speech, “That we have got off on the wrong foot.”

Sarah glared into her goblet, but dared say nothing.

“We will start over,” he said. He took another long swallow of wine, placed his goblet on the hearthstone before the fireplace and looked at her expectantly.

She started back at him. “Really?” she said incredulously.

His expression was all cold dignity. “I enjoy your company better,” he said icily, “when you are not screeching and sniveling.”

Fear suddenly gone, it was self-preservation that just barely prevented her from throwing the contents of her goblet into his face. She slammed it down instead, and the spilled wine sizzled on the hot hearthstones. “You  _ unbelievable  _ son of a bitch,” she said. “Where do you get off saying that to me after what you did?!”

“You were rude,” he said. His voice was cool, but his eyes flashed. “I was...disappointed.”

“Really? That’s what you have to say after you…you…” Her face twisted and she couldn’t finish. Her anger vanished, and her stomach churned. She couldn't bear to look at him anymore, so she turned her face to the fire.

“But I didn’t intend for that to happen Sarah,” he said—and where did he get off looking  _ annoyed _ ? “That is not what I want.”

She turned back to face him and spat bitterly: “That counts for a  _ lot _ less than you seem to think.”

Turning back to the fire, she drew her knees back up to her chest and stared into the flames. Her anger had gone just as suddenly as it had come, and now she felt strangely calm. It wasn’t as if there was anything she could do. He would do whatever he wanted, she couldn’t stop him, and eventually whatever spell held her here would fade, like it had the last time, and she would be home. Besides, she was so, so tired. She rested her head on her knees and closed her eyes.

For a while neither of them said anything. Sarah had almost drifted off to sleep when she heard liquid sloshing and cracked her eyes open. The Goblin King was refilling her goblet. 

“Drink,” he said urgently, sitting back on his heels. “It will help. You don’t look well.”

She lifted her head off her knees, angry and incredulous. On top of everything else that paternal attitude was really the last straw. “You know what? I’m not well. I didn’t sleep for three whole nights after you dragged me here the last time. I’m still terrified every time I close my eyes. I lie awake at night and wonder if tonight is the night you’re going to drag me away again—and what you might do.”

She had expected him to get angry again, but his expression was blank and he was sitting very still. She kept going.

“I called off work for two days,” she said, “I was too scared to leave the house. And when I finally did go back, my manager sent me home after I screamed and dropped a tray full of entrees when someone brushed up against me. I haven’t been back since—I’m probably going to get fired, and I don’t know how I’ll pay for my apartment.” She leaned forward. “The manager called my father afterwards, said she was worried. When he called, I couldn’t pick up the phone—I didn’t know what to say to him. After a few days of  _ that  _ he called the police, and I had to drag myself out of bed and splash water on my face and smile and convince them that everything was just fine—because what else could I say?” Crying again, she stopped to compose herself.

“I did not intend to hurt you. That is not what I want,” he said insistently. He did not exactly seem chastened, but the air of irritation he’d had earlier was gone.

Sarah wiped her tears away angrily with her sleeve and turned to the fire. As an apology, it was pretty piss-poor. “Then why bring me back here?”

“Because I want to talk.” He paused. “I want to negotiate.”

That was not at all what she had expected. Bemused, she turned to face him; his expression was animated, almost excited. “Negotiate?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning in closer to her. “Neither one of us is happy with things as they are. We can agree to terms, so we can both get what we want.” He gestured towards her. “You may start,” he said grandly, clearly feeling he was being generous

“Ok,” Sarah said; the strange turn their conversation had taken made her feel a little giddy. “Send me home and never talk to me again.”

“No,” he said immediately, as though he had expected it. His face was carefully blank, but a strange look passed through his eyes; it was gone before she could pin it down.

Sarah threw up her hands sarcastically. “Then I guess we’re done here, because that’s the only thing I want.” He glared, but she continued before he could speak. “You know what? Before we start...whatever this is, I want to know what you’re going to get out of this. You want me here, I get that. Well, I’m already here, and you’ve made it clear that you can drag me back whenever you want and do pretty much whatever the hell you like to me. So what’s in this for you? What else do you want?”

He didn’t answer right away; he studied her for a moment before turning to the fire. Finally, he said quietly, without looking at her: “For you to stay.” 


	6. Bargain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! The most recently posted chapter is actually Chapter 3: Protection. Sorry to be confusing. I realized during my looong break that I needed to do some "backfilling" in order to move on with the fic the way that I want to. More to come soon--thanks for reading!

The look on his face made her feel cold all over in spite of the blazing fire. She did not say anything. She hardly dared breath. Something hung in the air that felt very, very dangerous, and the only thing that was more terrifying than the thought of the anger a refusal might provoke in him was the prospect of what her life would become if she said yes.

Finally she cleared her throat; her answer came out in a quiet croak. “That’s not happening.”

To her relief, he did not rage. Instead, he smirked, his eyes glittering, as if to say _we’ll see_. Then he brought his hands together and his expression became more businesslike. “So,” he said briskly, like he was explaining something the should have been obvious to a child. “We have established that neither party can have what they want most. Now we compromise.”

“Compromise?” What compromise could she possibly make with a man—a _creature_ —who was capable of the things that he did? Why was she even talking to him? But Sarah found that she was at least as curious as she was angry. Something was stirring in the back of her mind, some baser instinct that did not rely on conscious thought, and it urged her to swallow her fear and pride and to pay attention.

“Yes.” He folded his hands in a formal gesture. “Here are my terms: I am content to continue merely to have you in your dreams for now. All I ask that when I do you no longer act…” he waved a hand carelessly and finished derisively. “…how you did earlier.”

“And how was that?” she inquired acidly. 

“You must stop cringing away when I get near you,” he said, face darkening for a moment as though even the thought angered him. “No more backing away when I approach, and no more tears or hysterics.”

“That doesn’t just happen,” she said angrily. “I can’t just say, ‘Sure, no problem,’ and switch it off!” 

“What could I offer in exchange?” he asked smoothly, as though it was that easy. What was he, some kind of alien? She almost lost her head completely and told him off—seriously, why was she participating in this? Everything about this conversation was wrong; sitting here and making deals with him, playing along with whatever part he had scripted for her in this sick little game he was playing. It was obscene. 

_And yet,_ that other part of her whispered. _And yet_. She clearly had something he wanted—something that he couldn’t just take, or he would have done it already. This might be the first opportunity she’d had to gain some control over this situation, the first chance at regaining some kind of power over him—and so, squaring her shoulders, she pressed on.

“You could start by not being an asshole for a very long time until I learn to trust you.” 

“How long will that take?”

She threw up her hands. “I don’t know!” 

His frowned deepened. “That is ridiculous.”

“Too bad! That’s how it is!”

He glared at her. She thought he would protest, but he after considering a moment he only said, “And what do you consider ‘not being an asshole’?”

_Say your right words._ She was getting a feel for this now—they weren’t just having a conversation. They were outlining the terms of a contract. “Not hitting me,” she replied readily. “Not yelling and stomping around when something happens that you don’t like. Not touching me unless I say it’s ok.”

He didn’t like that. “I cannot possibly stop and ask every time.”

“Fine. But you have to stop if I say so. And no kissing or anything like that without asking.”

He considered. “Agreed. I will agree to “not be an asshole” until you learn to trust me, and in exchange, when you are here, you will be...” he waved a hand airily. “Pleasant.”

_Pleasant?_ “What the hell does that mean?”

“You will speak and act courteously, you will do what I ask, and you will be agreeable.”

“I’m not going to act like someone I’m not, and I’m not going to do anything I’m not comfortable doing.”

He glowered. “Your offer is to say and do whatever you please?”

“I guess.”

“Those are not acceptable terms.”

“Tough shit! I’m not agreeing to do anything you ask me to do!”

He glared at her. “You know I do not have to do this. I do not _have_ to ask.”

The bottom dropped out of her stomach, but she tried desperately to keep her fear from showing on her face. He was bluffing—he had to be. She narrowed her eyes and let her anger show. “Trust me—you made that more than clear last time.”

His eyes flashed, and he turned abruptly away from her towards the fire.

“But you know what I think?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “I think that if that’s how you really wanted it, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Would we?”

He turned to face her, features rigid with anger. She glared back at him, trying to stare him down and brazen out the silence. He stared at her, his eyes boring hers. Sarah swallowed thickly; she had no idea what he was thinking, but she was pretty sure he saw straight through her bravado. 

She blinked first.

“But I guess I could…try,” she said.

“Try?”

“To be…polite, and do the things you ask. I’ll think about what you ask me to do and do it if I feel like l can.” She saw his frown and said quickly, “That’s the best I can do. Please Jareth—I can’t live with anything less than that.” She hoped addressing him by name would count for something.

He considered her for a long time; when he finally nodded, Sarah let out a long breath that she did not realize she had been holding.

“Very well.” It was clear that he thought he was being very generous. “Is there anything else?”

God, what else could she get him to agree to? 

“No lying,” she said, “If I ask you a question, tell me the truth.”

“You as well,” he said, and seemed pleased at the prospect. 

“And no twisting your words around to try to trick me.”

He almost squirmed at that. “Perhaps,” he agreed reluctantly. “But we can refrain from mentioning things.”

“Ok.” Another thought occurred to her. “And I don’t want you dragging me down here every single night. I have my own life Aboveground, and you just made it a lot more complicated.”

“Very well,” he said, irritated—probably this was the last concession she would get out of him. “I will only claim…five nights out of every seven.”

“One,” she countered.

“Four.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“ _Two_.” She quickly followed up with: “I don’t think I sleep properly when you take me down here. I need more time in between…” she searched for a _polite_ term, “…visits to catch up.”

“Fine. Two days out of every seven, but I also get an additional two every month to use whenever I please.”

Reluctantly, Sarah agreed. “Fine.”

He set down his goblet. “Very well,” he said. “If there is nothing else, let us seal the bargain.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “What do we do, sign something?”

“Nothing so crass,” he said dismissively. “We have already spoken the terms of the bargain—all that remains is for both parties to acknowledge their acceptance.”

“How do we do that?”

“There are many ways,” he said, “But the simplest would be to shake hands.” He held his hand out to her.

She hesitated for just a moment. She had no idea what she was getting into, not really. It sounded like he was taking this arrangment seriously, but she had no idea whether or not he was going to stick to the terms—or what he might do to her if he didn’t think she was holding up her end. But what was the alternative? She remembered the flat, hard look in his eyes when he had threatened her; she remembered what he had already done. If that was the alternative…

Tentatively, she reached her hand out towards his. He snatched it, startling her, and held it firmly, as though to prevent her from yanking it back. It was the first time they had touched since that first night, and the touch of his skin on hers, the strength of his grip, gave her a belly-deep feeling of nausea and wrongness, like bad food poisoning. The hair stood up on the back of her neck and cold sweat chilled her skin. Sarah quickly jerked their hands up and down, then tried to pull her hand away.

“Ok,” she said testily, “We shook on it, now—” She stopped, startled, when she realized that she couldn’t pull her hand away. It wasn’t just his grip—it felt like her skin was somehow adhered to his. Something tingled across the surface of her skin like electricity, and a faint glow began to emanate from their clasped hands. The Goblin King was smiling, firelight dancing over his pale angles of his face.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, pulling harder on her hand, the pitch of her voice rising in panic. But the glow was already fading. She yanked her hand away as soon as she was able. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

“The bargain,” he said simply, still smiling that satisfied smile. “It’s sealed.” Seeing the look on her face, he continued, “The bargain will keep both of us to our word.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she demanded, rubbing her hand. A cold sense of dread was building in the pit of her stomach, making her nausea worse.

He treated her to a look of disdain like the one she imagined the Spanish Conquistadors must have given the Native Americans who walked around half naked and worshipped idols.

“The bargain ensures fairness on both sides; neither of will be able to break it.”

“You’re talking about it like it’s...I don’t know. Like it’s a person or something.”

He shrugged lazily, smiling. “That is not an _entirely_ incorrect characterization.” The smile widened into an evil grin. “You were not planning on violating any of the terms, were you Sarah?”

_Oh shit,_ she thought. _Shit shit shit, what did I do?_ “What would happen if one of us did try to break it?”

“It will punish any attempt to go against the terms agreed on.”

“How?”

He smiled a grim smile. “Unpleasantly.”

Her head was swimming. “You didn’t mention any of that before.”

He smirked. “You did not ask.”

Oh, she was dizzy. It suddenly seemed like she could not get enough air. She tried desperately to remember the exact words she had spoken, but her stomach was cramping so painfully she couldn’t think straight. “I think I’m going to throw up,” she announced weakly.

He launched to his feet as she rolled onto her hands and knees, trying to get more air. A second later he was shoving something into her hands--some kind of basin. She grabbed at it feebly, turned away from him, and was sick as quietly as she could manage.

When the spasms passed she sat back on her heels with closed eyes, breathing carefully against a wave of dizziness. She felt empty, hollowed out, like a light breeze could blow her away. _What’s said is said_. There was nothing she could do now.

He took the basin from her and pressed the goblet full of wine into her hand. She looked up at him, too exhausted to form the question.

“It is safe,” he said flatly. “As I told you before.”

Well, he couldn’t be lying; unless he was bullshitting about the bargain, which she doubted. She had felt _something_ happen—and anyway, it was exactly the kind of thing he would do. She looked at the goblet and thought recklessly, _what does it matter anyway_? She took a careful sip. The wine burned pleasantly all the way down her throat. It glowed warmly at the bottom of her empty stomach and sent tendrils of warmth uncurling throughout her body. She took another sip.

“This is good,” she said hoarsely.

“It is rich; drink it slowly,” he said from across the room. He had opened the door and was placing the basin outside. When he walked back he saw her taking another greedy sip. “Slowly,” he warned. “I have no more washbasins. If you are sick again, you will have to use the chamber pot.”

She choked a little at that, and put the goblet down.

He settled back down across from her and eyed her. “You look a bit better,” he said approvingly. “You have some color back in your cheeks.”

She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“You should eat something,” he said, motioning to the table. 

She only just managed to keep from wincing; she was so tired, she couldn’t take any more of his solicitude. “I don’t think I can right now,” she said lightly, “I think I should go home and sleep.”

“I suppose,” he said, looking disappointed. “It is getting late. The spell will not hold much longer anyway.” He shrugged. “I shall call on you again tomorrow night.”

That was way too soon. She took another gulp of the wine for courage. “Look,” she said. “I need a few weeks,” she said. “Let me try to pull my life back together before you…before we do this again.”

He frowned. “That was not part of the bargain.” 

“No,” she agreed patiently. “It was not. I am asking for it—as a favor.” When this seemed to have no effect, she tried another tack. “Think of it as part of ‘not being an asshole.’”

He narrowed his eyes. “One week.” 

“Fine,” she said tiredly. She was too exhausted to try to bargain him up.

“Very well. One week from today I will call on you again,” he said stiffly. He stood up, and held her a hand. Hesitating, she took it.

“Thank you,” she said, catching his eyes as he helped her to her feet. He raised his eyebrows.

“For giving me the week,” she said. He studied her for a moment, as though he could think of nothing to say, then abruptly waved his hand as if in dismissal. As it fell, she heard the sound of the distant chimes—one, two, three, four… She looked down. Her skin was glowing faintly with the same white light as her hand had glowed when the bargain was sealed. As she watched in wonder, her body slowly became more and more transparent.

“Only one,” he said. Although he was still standing right in front of her, his voice sounded far away. “When it is over, I will come for you.” She closed her eyes, sighing in relief as she finally vanished completely.


	7. Family

She woke in the dark, as exhausted as if she had not slept at all. She grasped the sheets--cool, cheap cotton. The room was full of the dry, dusty hot-metal smell of the radiator and dimly lit by the faint blue glow of the charging indicator light on her phone. 

She was home. Sarah closed her eyes, melting back into the pillow in relief--then almost jumped out of her skin when her cell phone started ringing. 

Fumbling awkwardly with the cord of her charger, she pulled it loose and checked to see who was calling. _Toby?_ In the middle of the night?

Immediately she swiped up on the screen. “Toby?” she said urgently. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” A horrible thought occurred to her. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“Huh? No!” He sounded sleepy and indignant. “I’m not a baby, Sarah. If I have a bad dream I can deal with it by myself.”

“Then what is it?” She pulled her phone away from her ear and checked the time. “Jesus Toby, it’s 3am--what’s going on?” 

“Oh, I forgot,” he said, guiltily. “It’s only midnight here.” He paused. “Mom and Dad are fighting.”

“Yeah?” She ran her fingers through her sleep tangled hair. Something must be up--that wasn’t normal. It wasn’t as though Karen and her father never fought--she was sure they did. But Karen hated to make a scene, even--or especially--in her own home, and she was beyond overprotective of Toby. The most Sarah had ever seen was the two of them ignoring each other for half a day. “That sucks Tobes, I’m sorry.”

“It’s about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah--Sarah, did something happen? Dad is ranting and raving about flying down to see you--I think he’s drunk.”

“Really?” She hadn’t seen her father drink since the divorce.

“Yeah--Mom is trying to talk him into going to bed. What happened, Sarah? Are you ok?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, “Yeah, kiddo I’m fine.” This was her fault. She had to fix this. She had to think of something. “Can you put Dad on?”

“Yeah, just a sec.” There was a lot of rustling on the other line, then Sarah heard her father’s voice, sounding angry but too faint to make out the words, then Karen saying something softly. From the tone, Sarah could just picture the pained expression on her face, her wringing hands. Toby said, “It’s Sarah,” and there was a lot more rustling.

“Sarah?” Jesus, Toby was right; he sounded hammered. “Sarah, is that you?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

“Jesus Christ Sarah,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for almost a week now. Where in the hell is going on?” Distantly she heard Karen’s voice, soft and admonishing.

“I’m sorry Dad,” she said. Tears were forming in her eyes—God, she was tired of crying. “I…” What could she say?

“Oh honey, don’t cry.” She heard him curse under his breath. “I just…why didn’t you return my calls? I was so worried.”

“I…” Her mind raced, and the words fell out of her mouth before she even realized she was thinking them: “I was mugged.” 

“Mugged?”

“Yeah—Tuesday,” she said, thinking fast. “He got my phone; I just got a new one yesterday. I didn’t realize you’d been calling so much.”

“Oh God, are you ok?”

“Yeah! Yeah Dad, I’m fine,” she said quickly.

“Your manager called me—she sounded worried.”

“Yeah, I was pretty rattled. He…the guy, he wasn’t, you know, polite about it, but he didn’t actually hurt me. I’m fine, really.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Well Jesus Sarah, why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you call?”

  
“I didn’t want to worry you,” she said, her voice thick.

“Honey,” he said, his voice gentler now. “I’m going to worry about you no matter what--that’s my job. Trust me, nothing that you could tell me is worse than what I’m going to imagine if I don’t hear from you.” 

_I don’t know about that, Dad._ “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Do you want me to come down there?”

“No. Dad, I’m fine. I can handle this.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. It had to be true.

She heard Karen’s voice again in the background. “Hang on,” he said. “Karen’s here, do you want to talk to her?”

“Sure,” said Sarah.

“Sarah?” Karen’s worried voice. “I’m so relieved to hear you’re alright.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m sorry I worried you guys.”

“No, no,” Karen said quickly. “Like your father said, that’s our job. We’re just glad you’re ok.” She paused. “I know it must be pretty late over there, and I’ve got to get Toby to bed.” She heard a whine of protest in the background. “Call back soon, ok?”

“Sure,” Sarah said. “I will.”

“Ok honey. Good night.”

“Night--can you put Toby back on for a sec?”

“Sure.” She heard rustling and the distant sound of what was probably Karen telling Toby in no uncertain terms to keep it short.

“Hey Sarah.” She could hear his sleepy grin in his voice, and smiled.

“Hey Tobes. Everything’s alright now, ok?”

“Yeah, I heard. Thanks Sarah.”

“No problem kiddo. Now go back to bed before Karen has kittens.”

“K. Later.”

“Bye.”

She sat there for a while after Toby had hung up, staring at her phone. She’d been dreading talking to her father, to them all, but now that it was over a lightness filled her chest and she realized she did not feel so tired. She checked her phone again—it was almost 4am. The diner opened at 5—if she showered now, she would just barely have enough time to make herself presentable and walk over. There was a small, tiny chance that she could hang on to this job, and she might as well find out now. 

***

She caught a lucky break—Jen, not Randy, was opening that day. Randy was moody and unpredictable—Jen wasn’t exactly friendly, but Sarah was pretty sure that Jen liked her. Up until now, she had been a decent waitress, and as a rule Jen liked anybody who could do their job without constant nagging. She did seem cautiously happy to see Sarah, and ushered her quickly into the dingy manager’s office when she said she wanted to talk.

She decided to stick with the mugging story. Aside for the talk she’d had with her father last night and a few other such inspired conversations in her senior year of high school, Sarah had never found it very easy to lie. She tried to keep everything as simple and close to the truth as possible.

“It happened last Tuesday, after my dinner shift, I was on my way home from the store.” She swallowed nervously, not sure if her shaking voice was making her story more authentic or suspicious. “He…um…he was pretty rough with me, and…he said some pretty scary things.” All true. “I kind of freaked out for a little while afterwards. Didn’t want to leave the house.” She couldn’t stand to look Jen in the eye any longer, and turned her gaze to her lap. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier—and I’m sorry I stopped calling in. I just—everything seemed a lot more complicated than it really was. That’s all I can say.”

When she finally dared look up, Jen was looking at her with a guarded expression. Sarah turned back to her lap.

Finally Jen spoke. “Well first of all,” she said. “I’m really sorry that happened to you—it sounds awful.” Sarah looked up hopefully—it looked like she meant it. 

Then Jen frowned and folded her hands, and Sarah couldn’t keep her face from falling. “But I want to be honest with you--usually, two no-call, no-shows in a row means you’re out of a job—and you’ve got double that, plus all the times you called in.”

Sarah kept her eyes down. She didn’t need to pretend to look chastened—her face flushed with guilt. She’d worked shifts where people just didn’t show up before; it was a huge pain in the ass. Inwardly she cringed with embarrassment at how poorly she’d handled everything. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

“Technically you do still have a job, but to be frank I think that’s only because Randy is so preoccupied with inventory coming up that he hasn’t had time to think about it.” She stopped and looked at Sarah thoughtfully for a moment before continuing.

“I’ll talk to him.” She eyed Sarah’s hopeful expression and her frown deepened. “You’ve been with us for a while, Sarah, and you’ve been reliable up to now. That’s saying a lot in this industry. Now, I make no promises—we’ve let people go for less, and I can guarantee Randy’s going to be cranky until we’re done with inventory. But—I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank Jen,” Sarah couldn’t stop grinning. She’d heard Jen “talk” to Randy before. He hated making decisions—Sarah had overheard conversations where he didn’t even let Jen finish speaking before he agreed to the solution she proposed. “Tell him I’ll work any shifts he wants—I’ll organize the walk-in!”

“I’ll pass that on,” Jen said, allowing a small smile to escape. “Now—get out of here and get yourself something hot to eat. You look a little peaked.”

“I will,” Sarah promised. “Thanks again, Jen—thanks a lot!”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said grimly. “Call in tonight—if you’re back on the schedule, it means I caught him in a good mood.”

As Sarah was shutting the office door behind her, she heard Shanna’s voice calling her.

“Hey you!”

  
Sarah turned—Shanna was in the dining area setting tables. Her apron pocket bulged with rolls of silverware and napkins.

“Hi,” she said sheepishly.

“Where have you _been_!” Shana came in for a hug, and Sarah managed to keep from flinching. She tried to hug Shana back the way she normally did, ignoring the feeling of wanting to jump outside her own body that sprung up as soon as she felt arms wrapping around her. She began slowly counting to ten inside her head. 

_I am fine_ she told herself between numbers, taking slow, deep breaths. _I am fine._ She got to “four” before Shanna let her go.

“I’ve been calling and calling!” Shana complained as she let Sarah go. “You just disappeared! Everyone’s been worried about you—especially Brennan,” Shanna added with a knowing smile.

Sarah laughed a little and rolled her eyes. Brennan’s crush on her had been Shana’s new favorite thing to tease her about. God, she hadn’t even thought about that for days. 

“He’s been moping around for more than a week!” Shana went on. “He broke four glasses last night—Randy practically had an aneurysm.” She sighed. “He’s the clumsiest bartending I’ve ever seen—it’s almost cute.”

Sarah laughed again; it sounded a little awkward to her ears, and she winced. “Why didn’t you fix him up with someone while I was gone?” she accused. It was such a relief, falling into their familiar banter. “I gave you the perfect opportunity!”

“Ugh.” Shana rolled her eyes. “That one is beyond my powers. He’s kind of cute if you look at him the right way, but twenty-two and desperate is not a good look. Besides,” she grinned evilly. “He’s a one-woman kind of man, you know?”

Sarah rolled her eyes and moved to leave. “Ok, bye Shanna! See you later!”

“Not so fast!” Shana shoved her playfully on the shoulder. “So? Where’d you go? I was calling you nonstop for two days and Becca said you freaked out when you were in on Thursday. What’s up?”

Behind her friendly smile, Shana’s eyes looked worried—maybe a little scared. Again, Sarah was confronted with just how badly she had screwed up by going just going completely silent for a week. For a moment, the urge to tell Shana what had really happened to her was overwhelming.

But that was impossible. She swallowed, and told Shana the same story she’d told Jen. Shana’s eyes were wide by the time she was finished, and she reached out to again to hug Sarah.

“Oh man, you poor thing! No wonder you freaked. That sounds awful!”

It was easier to get through the hug this time. “Yeah,” she said, her voice thick. “It was hard.” 

Shana let her go with a comforting squeeze. “You call the cops?”

  
“No.” She’d had gone back and forth about this, but ultimately the fear of being caught in a lie and the guilt over wasting police resources had convinced her it was better to brazen this out without filing a police report. “I was too scared to leave the house right after, and then…” She gave Shanna an uncertain smile. “I didn’t think they’d believe me. Besides,” she repeated. “He only got my one of my cards, and I canceled it as soon as I got home.”

“Yeah, you’re right—better to leave it alone. Hey! I got the perfect idea: A bunch of us are going out tomorrow night—dancing at Central, hitting the bars. You should come!”

“Shanna, I don’t know.” Coming here had been hard enough—the thought of going out again, so soon and at night, make her deeply uneasy.

“Come o-o-o-n,” Shanna wheedled. “It’ll be good for you! You look like hell; you need to get good and drunk and blow off some steam!” 

Sarah smiled ruefully. Well, she had said she wanted her life back. Besides, if the Goblin King kept his word, she had a whole week to catch up on sleep. And maybe while they were out she could pick up a little something to mellow her out, make absolutely sure she slept soundly in the meantime.

No dreams.


	8. Reality

It was a profound relief to Sarah that she was able to slip back into her normal everyday life so easily. Jen not only managed to save Sarah’s job, but give her back all her old shifts as well—which, considering she had seniority on most of the other servers, were mostly nights and weekends. She traded a few of her busier shifts for daytime hours with the servers who had covered for her while she was gone, trying to use the prospect of better tips to make amends for the inconvenience she had caused them. She picked up a few extra shifts as well, covering for anyone who needed it, to try make up for the money she hadn’t earned during her week-long absence. She exchanged pleasantries with the other waitstaff and bitched in a comfortable, good-natured way with Shana, Shana’s boyfriend John, and their other friends Becca and Erin. She flattered, harangued, or bantered with the line cooks depending on who was on schedule that night. Whenever her shifts overlapped with Brennan’s, she steadfastly ignored his mooning stares and awkward attempts at conversation, dropping off her drink orders and picking them up with crisp and courteous efficiency. She smiled sweetly at her customers, enduring the obnoxious drunks, picky eaters, and bad tippers with impeccable grace and patience, saving up her bile to unleash later in kitchen. 

To anyone who asked about her absence, she smiled sadly and said “family emergency.” No one asked her any questions.

On Tuesday, Shana arranged a night out. They went to Central to see a live show (half-price, because it was Tuesday), and then, at John’s urging, went bowling. They drank pitchers of beer and slid around on the polished wooden floors with their smooth-soled shoes. The only two of them with any real skill, John and Becca, focused mostly on bowling and trash-talking each other. Between frames, Shana scrolled through Instagram while Sarah pumped Erin for details on her recent role as an extra in a fast-food commercial.

“$150!” she said triumphantly, texting Sarah the phone number and email for the casting company that had hired her. “I had to hold a French fry in my hand and laugh for almost seven hours.”  
  
“Did they feed you?” Sarah asked. 

Erin made a face. “More French fries,” she said grimly. “The talent got Olive Garden.”

Shana got into a raging fight with John over something he had posted on Snapchat (Sarah missed the details) and walked home with Sarah. Shana ranted about the male gaze most of the way home before declaring abruptly, as she been doing lately whenever she got _really_ drunk, that she was going to miss Sarah when Sarah finally moved to New York. Sarah spent the last ten minutes of the walk to Shana’s apartment consoling her, assuring her that she was at least going to stay the next six months until the latest season of community theater was over. By the time they got to Shana’s apartment, both of them were sloppy-crying. Rather than walking home, she collapsed on Shana’s couch and slept until almost noon the next day.

It was a life she had loved, a life she had spent the last two and half years building since college, just one more stepping stone on the way to achieving her dreams. And yet, something was wrong. Nothing about it had changed—but still, Sarah felt different. When she served her customers, chatted with her coworkers, hung out with her friends, she didn’t feel quite herself. It was as though she was playing a part; like part of her, the important part, was standing off to one side and watching a replica of herself live her own life. She found that the feeling eased somewhat when she was drunk, and after her night out with Shana and the others she rummaged around her kitchen, found a dusty, half empty bottle of vodka on top of her fridge, leftovers from some long-ago party, and started keeping it by her bed. When it ran out, she walked down to the gas station on the corner and got more.

All in all, facing real life did not turn out to be as difficult as she feared. She still become very nervous when people wanted to touch her or when someone stood directly behind her, but, as far as she could tell, she hid it well. Several times throughout the week she was disoriented by the powerful feeling that she was looking out at the world through someone else’s eyes. The feeling vanished as quickly and inexplicably as it came, leaving her with a faint feeling of nausea and unease. Luckily, no one seemed to notice. 

There was a little awkwardness, a little distance the first few days she was back at work, but it faded quickly in the face of her impeccable performance. Aside from a few comments that she needed to get some sleep, which tapered off after she started really laying on the concealer, the only person to express any real concern was another server named Debbie, a middle-aged veteran of the restaurant industry verging on elderly, very Christian and a bit nosy. 

Debbie pulled her aside during a Wednesday afternoon shift, peering at Sarah through her thick glasses, and asked her how she was sleeping. 

Sarah faltered a little at the directness of the question. “Oh, um—ok, I guess.” Even to her, it didn’t sound very convincing.

Debbie looked at her sympathetically and patted her shoulder. “Bad dreams?”

Sarah looked over Debbie’s shoulder—Shana was smirking at her from the bar. 

“Yeah,” she said. The quickest way out of this conversation was to just admit it—Debbie was a dog with a bone whenever she thought she saw an opportunity to do good. 

“Poor thing,” Debbie reached into her apron pocket, drew out something covered in white feathers and offered it to her.

“Here,” she said. “Hang this over your bed—it’ll help you get some rest.” She patted Sarah’s shoulder again. “You take care of yourself honey.”

“Thanks,” Sarah said automatically as Debbie bustled away. She shoved whatever it was into her pocked and didn’t look at it again until she slipped outside to talk to Shana while she was on her smoke break.

“Oh my God,” Shana said in a mix of horror and wonder. “It’s a dreamcatcher.”

It was. It had a web woven of out of white polyester cords, and hanging from the hoop were bright bleached-white leather thongs strung with pink and purple plastic beads. Clumps of fluffy artificial white feathers had been stuck into the gaps between the beads and along the outer edge of the hoop. There was a little card attached to it that said “The Legend of the Dreamcatcher” in a long, looping light blue script, and an Angelfire URL was printed on the back.

“I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid,” Shana marveled. “Are they supposed to have this many feathers?”  
  


“I don’t know,” Sarah said nervously, trying to snatch it back. “Give it! If Naomi sees it we’ll be getting lectures about cultural appropriation for a week!”

“We’ll deserve them,” Shana snickered, balancing her cigarette in one hand and holding the dreamcatcher out of reach with the other. She fingered the plastic beads. “God, look at it. Do people really still use Angelfire?”

When she’d finally gotten the dreamcatcher back from Shana, Sarah stuffed it into her apron pocket and promptly forgot all about it in the chaos of the dinner rush. When she got home that night and emptied her apron onto her bed, she’d stared at it doubtfully before looking up at her walls, already covered in symbols and talismans belonging to at least five different cultural traditions that she knew next to nothing about. She looked at the dream catcher again, wincing a little, but shrugged, got a thumbtack from the kitchen, and hung it from the wall just above the headboard of her bed, underneath a Celtic triple spiral and beside a crude drawing of the Norse rune “Algiz” that she’d done in black sharpie.

Whether it worked or not, she couldn’t say. Most nights she slept fitfully, and she did not remember her dreams. 

All throughout that week, as she kept herself busy doing everything she could to get her life back on track, Sarah steadfastly avoided thinking about the Goblin King and the bargain she had made with him—there would be time for that later, she reasoned. This was her week. But the time seemed to pass so quickly, and suddenly the week was over, the sun was setting on the night she was to return to the Underground, and there was nothing else for her to think about. She looked longingly at the bottle of vodka on her nightstand, but taking the edge off was not an option tonight. She needed to be sharp.

The night she’d returned, she had written down everything she could remember saying during her last visit. Sarah burned with humiliation as she re-read it, remembering how easily she had been drawn into making the bargain with him, but she had been so tired, and so desperate. And now, as she looked over the conditions of the bargain with fresh eyes, she had to admit that she hadn’t done too bad. She had given him power over her, no doubt, but he had already found a way around that anyway. And he had to behave himself now—he couldn’t hurt her anymore. 

Despite that, she couldn’t suppress a shudder as she considered what might await her when she returned. No matter what temporary security the bargain offered her, she couldn’t forget what his ultimate goal was. _For you to stay_. This wasn’t like the Labyrinth, which, though dangerous, was an ordeal with a clearly defined task and a time limit—and she’d had friends to help her. Now she was alone. The bargain they’d made had no expiration date, and she had no idea what she would have to do to keep herself safe from him. How was she going to get out of this?

Sarah looked over the protective symbols and charms that covered the walls of her bedroom. She thought about the night she had decided to take it all down when she was younger—about what had convinced her that she no longer needed it.

It had been near the end of her 10th grade year. The school had hired a part-time drama coach to help the elderly drama teacher, Mrs. Stokes, with the spring production of “Our Town.” Sarah was immediately drawn to him. Mr. Mark, as he’d asked the students to call him, was handsome, so mature, and, although he was old enough to be her father, he seemed to genuinely enjoy her company. Her friends were jealous—he was _very_ well liked by virtually all the female students—but they were used to Sarah getting a lot of the attention in drama club, and did not see anything unusual in the warmth in his voice when he complimented her reading or way his eyes followed her across the stage. 

When he asked her if she would be willing to stay after hours for extra practice, she’d agreed immediately, eyes shining. But when she’d shown up in the auditorium after her Speech and Debate meeting, he seemed preoccupied, almost like he was angry with her. While the drama teacher, Mrs. Stokes, moved around back stage noisily organizing the props, he took her through a few simple exercises, stuff she had worked on as a freshman. He kept glancing backstage toward where Mrs. Stokes was working and barely looked at her. After only fifteen minutes, he abruptly declared that practice was over and left out the side door without another word.

As she stood on the stage, confused and feeling like she wanted to cry, Mrs. Stokes came out from behind the curtains, very gently sat her down, and in her quiet, sweet Texas accent, told her that she was concerned. That she’d noticed how the drama coach spoke to her, how he looked at her. She asked Sarah if he had ever asked her to do anything that made her uncomfortable. And just like that, Sarah knew. She understood why he’d smiled at her the way he did, why he’d been complimenting her, and she shook head, her cheeks burning with shame at how foolish she had been. _I fell for it again_ , she thought, though she wasn’t even exactly sure what she meant.

“Honey,” Mrs. Stokes said, taking her hand. “Don’t you let him make you feel bad for one second. This is not your fault. Men like him, they’re tricky. You need to handle them carefully or they’ll try to get away with just about anything.” She explained to Sarah that she could report what was happening, but told her that she didn’t think anything would come of it. There was no guarantee that the principal would believe her, and Mr. Mark hadn’t done anything yet, not anything that would get him into real trouble. She would recommend to the principal that they not hire him again next year, but in meantime they were stuck with him.

“You’re a smart girl,” Mrs. Stokes said. “You’ll be able to manage him just fine. And I’ll be here—I won’t leave you alone with him for one second. You think you can handle that?”

Sarah had nodded, her cheeks still flaming. 

“If he tries anything else, if you get scared, you go straight to your parents,” Mrs. Stokes told her. “They’ll be able to kick up a bigger fuss. Your daddy’s a lawyer, right?”

Sarah nodded.

“You’ll be fine, honey.” Mrs. Stokes had patted her hand. “Just remember: men like that, they try to suck you in. They try to make you feel silly, make you think that the way they see things is the _only_ way. You just have to stand on your own two feet and stay true to yourself. You can’t let them make you forget who you are.”

A few days later, Mr. Mark approached her again about private lessons, this time when Mrs. Stokes was at the other end of the auditorium helping another student. She’d smiled sweetly and looked down. Her father had been very angry, she said, when she’d gotten home so late the other night. He’d made her promise to come straight home after rehearsal from now on. After that, Mr. Mark pretty much left her alone. When she noticed him paying special attention to another girl, a freshman this time, she’d taken a few of her more talkative classmates aside after rehearsal and whispered confidences into their ears. Before long, about half the female population of her high school had dubbed him a “creep.” The other half, of course, still passionately defended him, but he was on his guard after that, and he had lost a lot of his easy charm. On the last day, he’d walked out of the school minutes after the last bell rang, skipping the _Hamlet_ cast party, and did not return the following September. She’d been giddy with relief and triumph that evening as she’d broke down the set with her friends, giggling and prancing around the stage as she ate far too much pizza and drank can after can of soda.

That was the night that she’d packed it all away. When she got home that night she had sat soberly on her bed for a long time, working up the courage. When she was finally ready, she got out of bed and calmly took down all the protective symbols that hung on the walls. The jewelry and other odds and ends she gathered from wherever it lay: the bathroom, her dresser, and her nightstand. 

Karen had come in while she was taking it down and, trying to hide her delight, asked her why. “I don’t need it anymore,” Sarah said truthfully.

She packed it all up in her wooden jewelry chest and stuck it under the bed. Magic wasn’t going to help her, but she didn’t need it anyway. She’d defeated the Labyrinth—and she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Now, ten years later, sitting on a different bed in a different bedroom, she stared at the yellowed, much-creased drawings and charms that covered her walls once again: pentagrams, eyes of Horus, six and eight-pointed stars, a smattering of Nordic and Celtic runes, triple spirals and triquetras. Try as she might, she couldn’t summon that same iron-hard confidence in her own strength that she remembered feeling the night she’d decided she didn’t need magic. Mr. Mark had been laughably easy to deal with compared to what awaited her on the other side of her dreams tonight.

Sarah gripped the cross made of iron nails that she wore around her neck, twisting it in her hands over and over. Maybe if she never went to sleep at all, he wouldn’t be able to take her. Maybe it only worked at night. If she only slept during the day, she might be safe—she could quit her job, find one where she worked nights only… 

She checked her phone—10:37—and sighed in resignation. Between the lack of sleep and the constant, low-grade anxiety of the past few weeks, she was exhausted. She put it off too long—she couldn’t make a plan now. She was so tired she could barely thing; and besides, she didn’t know enough.

As she lay down, fully dressed in leggings and a long t-shirt, she caught sight of the dreamcatcher hanging over her and cringed, but did not take it down. It wasn’t as if anyone else would see it. And maybe it would help. Her time Underground was essentially a dream—at least that was how the Goblin King had explained it. Maybe it would keep anything bad from happening to her while she was down there.

Sarah closed her eyes and fell almost immediately into a restless sleep.


	9. Punishment

She woke up screaming.

Pain—burning, searing pain. Her skin was burning, her whole body was on fire. She screamed again and again—her muscles were contracting with vicious, tearing force, releasing, and contracting again in a random, unpredictable order. She writhed, twisted her head back and forth, expecting to see flames, something that was causing this agony, something she could flee from, but there was nothing—only her dark, empty bedroom. Sarah screamed again, dimly realizing that she was gripping the sheets so tightly it felt like bones in her fingers were going to crack. 

It went on for what felt like hours—then, as suddenly as it began, whatever it was that had its grip on her released her, and she fell back against her bed, her whole body throbbing, and sobbed into sheets that were already soaked through with sweat.

She smelled something then—the harsh, chemical smell of plastic burning. Wildly she looked around, reaching out for her phone on the bedside table. Her arm was shaking so violently that she almost dropped it. With difficulty, she managed to unlock it and turn on the flashlight app. She panned the wobbly beam of light around her bedroom: there were the clothes she’d worn the day before, on the floor near the door where she’d stepped out of them, her apron and hoodie hanging from the rack on the back of the door, her dresser, covered with the tangled pile of jewelry, loose change, and odds and ends she pulled from her pockets at the end of the day. The papers she’d hung haphazardly from the walls created strange shadows underneath as the light passed over them. No sign of anything burning. The thought occurred to her that something might be burning elsewhere in the apartment, but the smell was sharp and clear—she thought it was probably nearby. 

Her muscles clenched suddenly, making her body curl in on itself—her fingers twisted, and she dropped the phone. It bounced off the edge of her bed and landed on the floor.

“No, no, no!” she cried. Adrenaline shot through her veins, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath, it was coming so fast and shallow. She wrapped her arms around chest, trying to ward off the spasm, but her muscles clenched tighter and tighter, and she fell over on her side, wailing as she lost control of her body again.

Then she saw it—in a quick flash as a spasm wrenched her neck so far back she thought it would break, above her bed, illuminated by her phone’s flashlight from where it lay on the ground. 

Above her bed, tendrils of smoke were curling from the center of the web of the dreamcatcher, and the web itself was slowly turning brown. 

Immediately Sarah understood what she had to do—but then pain had her in its grip again and her head was jerked from side to side, and she couldn’t look anymore, couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even think—her body was tearing itself apart and all she could do was scream.

When it finally passed, leaving her limp and gasping for air, she crawled weakly towards the head of her bed, using the bedposts to pull herself forward and up far enough until she could reach up, her whole upper body shaking with the effort, and try to pull the dreamcatcher down from where it hung.

Her first two attempts failed—her arms and fingers would not entirely obey her, and at first they flopped uselessly against the wall far below her target. Finally, on her third try, as Sarah gritted her teeth and, blinking back tears of pain and frustration, she managed to grab a hold of one of the leather thongs and _yank_. The thumbtack popped out of the wall and the dreamcatcher fell through her clumsily grasping fingers, bouncing first off her forehead and then off the edge of the bed, falling to the floor.

Sarah screamed in frustration and heaved her body towards the end of her bed. She flopped over the side and onto the floor, landing hard on her shoulder with a loud groan. Scrambling onto her hands and knees as quickly as she could, she found the dreamcatcher and clutched at it with shaking hands. The center of the web had gone from brown to black, and, as she watched, a small flame erupted from the very center, flickered, and began to spread along the lengths of string. 

She could feel the tension building in her muscles again. Ignoring the flame, Sarah dug her fingers into the web, shredding the now weakened and brittle cords, ignoring the hot, melted pieces of polyester that burned and stuck to her hands as she clawed it apart. As the strings gave way under her fingers, she felt something _pop_ in the air around her, and some kind of pressure that she hadn’t even realized had been building was released, like a rubber band final pushing through the balloon, and almost immediately her hands were glowing and becoming translucent, much faster than they ever had before, and she began to fade away just as another spasm caught her in its grip and she opened her mouth to scream.

No gentle awakening this time—she was transported to the Underground almost instantly, still screaming, and her body thudded against the hard stone floor next to the Goblin King’s bed with bruising force.

“Sarah!”

She managed to craned her head towards the source of the shout, and saw the Goblin King springing up from a chair by the fire, the book he had been reading falling from his lap to the ground.

She could not reply--she could only grit her teeth as every muscle in her body to iron. A high-pitched whine escaped her lips and her head was yanked back, knocking it back against the hard floor. 

He was running to her side. “Sarah!” She could see him kneeling beside her though a red haze of pain, his voice high and panicked. “Sarah, what did you do?!”

She could only continue to scream. As she writhed against the unforgiving stones, she was aware of the Goblin King running to the door, of shouting, hastily given orders. Finally, as the spasm passed and her body relaxed again, slowly, leaving her twitching and gasping, he was beside her again, and she saw his face loom over at hers, his stricken expression scaring her more than the pain. 

“Am I dying?” she panted weakly. 

He frowned darkly and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger .

“You tried to break the bargain,” he sternly, his eyes troubled.

She tried to shake her head, but only managed a slight twitch. “No!”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said sharply, gripping her chin hard enough to bruise the bone, making her whimper as she tried, unsuccessfully, to twist away. “Especially in your present condition. That would be very unwise.”

“I’m not lying,” she gasped.

“You have obviously tried to thwart the terms of our agreement,” he said, his voice tight. “Otherwise this would not be happening.”

“I didn’t!”

“You did.” He bent lower, bringing his face closer to hers, his eyes narrowed in anger and—could that be fear? “And if you want to live, you’ll tell me what it was.”

She couldn’t stand lying there on the ground like that, looking up at him. She tried to roll onto her side so that she could raise herself, sit up, but pain shot through the muscles of her stomach and arms and they refused to obey her and she flopped uselessly onto her back again.

“I didn’t,” she wailed. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Damn it Sarah, you must have done something. Think!”

“I…” She thought of the dreamcatcher then, how she had known as soon as she saw it that she had to destroy it. “I might have done something by accident.”

He raised his eyebrows, clearly not expecting that response, and released her.

“A…friend gave me something to put over my bed. She said it helped with bad dreams.”

“A charm of some kind?”

“Yeah, I guess. I didn’t think it would work.”

“Your friend gave you a charm to protect you while you slept,” he said slowly, as though it was difficult for him to understand such utter stupidity, “And you used it because you thought it would _not_ work?”

“Those things usually don’t,” she said helplessly. Her muscles were clenching again—another spasm was coming. “Oh my God,” she panted, her heart pounding. “Please, you have to do something!”

“What did you do with the charm?” he demanded.

“I—” she groaned, trying to force her muscles to relax. “I destroyed it.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” 

“Yes!” Oh God, it wasn’t working—her body was starting to curl in on itself. “Jareth please!” Desperately she reached out, her fingers already curling into claws, and grabbed his hand. “ _Please_ , make it stop, help me, I swear I didn’t mean it!”

He shook his head; he no longer looked angry. “There is nothing I can do; my magic will have no effect on the bargain.” He squeezed her hand. “Try to relax.”

She tried to scoff but it came out as a whine as the muscles in her legs began to clench.

“Relax!” he said firmly. “Let it happen--it will pass. Try to control your breathing.” He paused. “If you destroyed the charm, these attacks should soon cease. This one should not be quite so bad as the others, and the one after, even less.”

He was right; it was awful, but the more bearable than the others had been. She was able to breath her way through most of it, until it reached the peak and her whole body arched off the stone floor. When she started to scream, he grabbed her chin again and looked sternly into her eyes. “Breath! Screaming will make it worse. Breath.” As soon as she could get her breath under control again, she found that he was right, and focused her whole awareness on breathing in and out again. Gradually her muscles began to relax and the pain eased; she heard a knock at the door, but only after the spasms had ceased completely, leaving her panting and relieved, did the Goblin King rise and leave her side.

Sarah closed her eyes and continued breathing carefully, in and out, in and out. She heard him speak briefly with someone at the door, then the door closed. She heard the sounds of something heavy and metal being dragged across the stone floor.

The Goblin King returned to her side.

“We must get you off the floor,” he said, kneeling down.

“I don’t think I can get up,” she said weakly.

“I know.” He bent over her. “Put your arms around my neck.”

She blanched.

“Don’t be absurd,” he said crisply. “Do you want to stay where you are?”

The back of her head still throbbed where Reluctantly she tried to raise her arms and managed to clumsily fling them around his neck and grab loose fistfuls of his shirt. He leaned over her, and, very gently, slid his arms under her knees and the small of her back and lifted her up. She hung onto his as best she could and gritted her teeth in anticipation of painful jostling of her overstretched and torn muscles, but he moved carefully, holding her firmly against his chest as he got one foot underneath him, then another, and rose, very slowly, to his feet. She tried very hard not to think about who he was and what she was doing as she clung weakly to his neck.

Still moving with care, he crossed the room to the bed. As he put her down, he bent over and set her down, still in his arms, before carefully sliding his arms out from underneath her back and legs. Sarah turned her head to the side, closing her eyes and holding her breath until he had extracted himself and stood up again.

“I have ordered a bath,” he said, in the same brisk and businesslike voice. “It should be prepared before long.”

She couldn’t have heard him correctly. “What?”

“It is the only way I know to lessen the pain,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “The attacks are likely to continue for at least another hour, and my magic can do nothing until they have passed.”

The thought made her queasy.

“I—my clothes,” she said.

“You may keep them on if you wish,” he said. When she did not respond, he frowned. “If you prefer,” he said tightly. “I could have the servants—”

“I—” It was the obvious solution—yet the thought of a stranger, especially a stranger in the Underground, seeing her this way was intolerable. Besides that, something in her sensed that as long as she was weak, she was safe with him, and she was too tired, too utterly and completely drained, to question that instinct too deeply. 

“No,” she said quietly. “No, that’s fine.” 

And so, after she heard servants coming and going several times, pouring huge, steaming basins of water into the large copper tub, she made no protest as he gathered her up, carried her over to where the tub stood in front of the fire. The water was very hot, and she hissed as it came in contact with her skin. 

He stopped abruptly and turned to look at her. “Is it too hot?” he asked.

His face was only a few inches away from hers, and Sarah looked away, her cheeks hot. “No,” she said quickly. “No, just—go slow. Please.”

As he lowered her into the tub, Sarah gritted her teeth. At first, the sensation of the nearly scalding water against her already sore, overstimulated skin was overwhelming—but in a few moments her body adjusted and she let out a long, heartfelt sigh of relief. The heat from the water seemed to soak into every throbbing, weary muscle until the last ounce of tension in her body melted away. The pain was not gone, but was very much reduced. When she felt next spasm coming, she cried out, but more out of fear than pain—already they were much weaker, and on top of that the water seemed to make it even more bearable. 

When it passed, she very slowly and carefully raised herself up in the bath, wincing, and looked around to see what had become of the Goblin King. He was back in his chair by the fire; the book that had fallen to the floor earlier was lying open in his lap, but he was not reading it. Instead, he was looking at her.

He smiled as she looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. “Better?”

She flushed, and told herself it was the heat from the water. “Yes,” she said, not meeting his eyes. She lowered herself back into the water and settled against the sloped back of the tub, facing away from him.


	10. Conversation

Sarah lay back and closed her eyes as she felt tendrils of steam rising off the surface of the water and caressing her face. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire, the faint whisper of the Goblin King turning the pages in his book, and the gentle tinkling sounds that the water made when it moved against the metal tub as she breathed. The past and the future held no interest for her—there was only the delicious present where she was free of pain and expectation.

Between heat from the water and sheer relief, she nearly fell asleep. If it were not for the attacks, she would have lost any sense of time passing altogether. Several more came and went as she lay in the bath, but each one was easier to get through than the last. Finally there came one where there was barely any pain at all, just tension, and she was able to close her eyes and keep completely still while she breathed through it.

As it was winding down, the Goblin King spoke:

“Tell me when the last one has passed—there may be something I can do to help with any lingering effects.”

“Ok,” Sarah said, still a little breathless. She was beginning to feel a bit more like herself. Her whole body still ached keenly, but if she did not move too much she could push the pain into the background and ignore it. Her brain, no longer preoccupied with just ensuring her survival from one moment to the next, began to raise certain thoughts for her consideration. Suddenly she was painfully aware of the fact that she was lying in a bathtub, fully clothed and not able to move, in the bedroom of…what was he exactly? Her kidnapper? Her enemy? Some kind of fairy tale monster?

Sarah snuck a quick glance at him over her shoulder. He had draped himself over the armchair, one leg thrown over an armrest, the other bent and tucked against his body. In one hand, he held a book the size of a dictionary, balancing the thick spine carelessly in his fingers. His other hand supported his chin, his elbow resting on the other arm of the chair. The expression on his face was distracted—his brow was furrowed, eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a tight line, as though he was unable to focus his thoughts.

It was hard to reconcile the domestic, almost endearing image of the man in front of her with the reality of what he had done. She remembered the careful way he had held her as he carried her to the tub and lowered her in, the look in his eyes when he saw her writhing on the ground. She would have expected him to be angry that she had broken the bargain, but instead he had seemed almost afraid.

Sarah caught a glimpse of her reflection, wavering and distorted, in the gently rippling bathwater, and glared when she saw the pensive, lonely look on her face. What did it matter that he had helped? Was she supposed to be grateful, when he was the one who had put her in this situation in the first place? Spied on her, kidnapped her, slapped her around and tricked her into making the bargain with him when she was out of her mind with fear and lack of sleep? Why should she care how he felt about her if that was what he chose to do about it? Instead of trying to understand him, she should be focusing on how to protect herself—how to escape.

And then she had a very interesting thought.

Her biggest obstacle in forming a plan to extricate himself from this trap that he had laid for her was lack of information—and that here she sat, alone in a room with the one person who could probably tell her everything she needed to know, if she could figure out the right way of asking him. A man who was convinced that he loved her and was probably very eager to have a friendly conversation with her.

She had never been very good at lying. Acting was different—becoming a different person was easy compared to pretending she felt differently than she did. But if she was careful, maybe she wouldn’t have to. If she could just keep her mind focused on how he had helped her tonight, try to forget about everything else he had done. What did she have to lose?

She took a deep breath, trying to center herself the way she did before a show, and cleared her throat, the sound seeming very loud in the still room. 

“So…” she said, affecting a casual tone, “You’re a real king?”

She heard him scoff. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know…are you really in charge of a country?”

“I’m aware of the responsibilities the role of “king’ entails,” he said, his voice dry. If he’d been anyone else, she would have thought that she’d offended him. “And yes. I am a ‘real king’.” 

She could just picture the sardonic smile on his face—the carefully condescending raised eyebrow. He sounded a little curious too, as though he was wondering what brought about her sudden change in attitude towards him. Curious, but not wary. Good.

“So, am I supposed to call you ‘Your Highness,” or ‘Your Majesty’ or what?”

“Neither,” he said, turning another page of his book. He still spoke in that same dry voice, but underneath she could tell that he was amused. “I’ve already told you what I prefer you to call me.”

She ignored that. “So you have a kingdom—not just the labyrinth, but an entire kingdom?”

“Of course—I rule the Underground.”

“The entire Underground?” 

“Yes.”  
  
She was warming up to it now; the words were coming more easily. It didn’t hurt that she was genuinely interested. “That sounds like a lot of work.”

Cloth rustled, and Sarah imagined him shrugging. “The Lords and Ladies who owe me fealty handle the day-to-day affairs of their own little fiefdoms and pay me regular tribute—the Labyrinth and its goblins are my most immediate concern.” His voice was disinterested, as though he found the subject boring. “These days I rarely need to intervene in anything else.”

“That doesn’t sound fair—if they do all the work, why do you get to be King?”

“Why does a pack of wolves follow its leader?” he asked, and she could just hear the smirk in his voice. “I assure you, it has nothing to do with distribution of labor. Or fairness.”

“But if you rule the whole Underground, why are you only called the “Goblin King,” and not “The King of the Underground?”

There was a long pause; finally, he said “Tradition,” and she was startled by the bitterness in his voice. 

She did not reply—curious as she was, she did not want to set him off. 

She closed her eyes and tried to collect her thoughts as she listened to the crackling of the fire and the occasional, crisp sound of the Goblin King turning a page in his book. It sounded like the Underground was much bigger that she’d thought—though, to tell the truth, she hadn’t really thought much about it. How big was it? She thought about a map she’s seen of early medieval England, the tiny island divided up into eight even smaller kingdoms. Was it like that? Or was it the size of a state, like New York or California? Bigger?

She looked towards the tapestries, around where she guessed she’d found the window last time. Could it be bigger than that? Could he rule a kingdom the size of her entire world? And however big the Underground was, _where_ was it? Where was she, really, right now?

Abruptly, she realized that it had been a long time since the last attack. She looked over at the Goblin King—he was reading his book and looked calm enough. She turned back around to face the wall.

“I think they’re gone,” she said nervously.

He did not say anything, but she heard him close his book and rise from the chair. As he approached, she turned around to face him, gripping the edge of the tub. What was he going to do exactly?

“Settle down,” he said, but his eyes were calm and his voice was soft. “It’s only a healing charm—it will undo the damage the bargain’s punishment has caused—at least enough to ensure you’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”

He put out a hand and looked at her as though waiting for her approval. She nodded and turned away, relaxing, as best she could, against the back of the tub and closing her eyes. He placed his hand upon her forehead. His fingers felt wonderfully cool against her skin, flushed as it was from the heat of the bath. Then she gasped—the cool sensation was spreading, flowing down her cheeks, her neck, and on and on until it covered her body. It hung there for a moment, encasing her whole body in tingling coolness, before seeming to sink into her skin and fade, taking with it the last traces of pain and weariness from her sore muscles.

As the spell finished its work it left her with a glowing warm feeling, as if she’d just had a really good massage. She sighed. “Thank you,” she said, a little breathless. She hadn’t been fully aware of how much pain she was still in until he had taken it away. Now she felt—oh, wonderful.

She turned to look at him, but he had already returned to his place by the fire and was in the process of sitting back down. She frowned—his movements were slower than usual, and there was a slight slump to his shoulders.

“You’re welcome,” he said dryly, leaning back all the way back in the chair and closing his eyes. “Though, if it is not too much trouble,” he added as he settled back into the chair, “I would appreciate it if you could refrain from accepting any more dubious charms from well-meaning friends. Reversing the damage done by the bargain, even after the punishment has passed, is no easy feat. I would rather not have to perform that particular spell again.”

“No,” she said, quickly, feeling more than a little guilty—though part of her rebelled at the feeling. After all, he was the reason she had been caught up in the bargain in the first place. “No more bargain-breaking for me—that was…” she struggled to find the right word, realized there wasn’t one, and settled on: “ _intense_.”

“Yes, I expect it was—like your body was tearing itself apart, I imagine.”

“While being set on fire,” she added glibly, turning back around and sinking down into the tub so that only her face and ears were above the water, soaking her hair. She was feeling pleasantly lightheaded—almost giddy. Either the spell was going to her head, like some kind of magical morphine, or all the endorphins her brain must have been dumping into her body to combat the pain she was in over the last hour were finally catching up with her.

“Really? I would have compared it to being eaten alive—but fortunately I suppose neither of us is speaking from experience.” She heard the sound of rustling paper—he must have opened his book again.

“You’re talking about it like you know how it feels,” she said idly, poking her fingertips above the surface of the water and gently swirling them around, relishing the complete lack of pain that came with the movement, the easy freedom with which her body obeyed her. 

“I do.”

Well, _that_ was interesting. Sarah sat up, the weight of the water that soaked her hair dragging her down as she turned to look at him. “ _You_ tried to break the bargain?”

He did not look back—he was staring down at his book, face impassive. “Not this one. I am not an utter fool.” 

“Another one then,” she pressed, folding her arms and leaning against the side of the tub.

“You’re getting water on the floor,” he said pointedly. She glared at him, and he rolled his eyes. “Yes, another one. A long time ago.” He paused, then added. “When I was very young.” 

“As young as me?” She was too comfortable—and too curious—to put any venom in that question.

“No,” he said finally, sounding thoughtful. “Not quite as young as you.”

“What was the bargain?” Another long pause—he still would not look up from the book, though he had not turned a page in some time. “Come _on_ —who am I going to tell?”

He frowned and finally looked up at her, closing his book. “An arrangement over some land,” he said, sounding reluctant, as though he were giving her the information against his better judgement. “I did not fully consider the implications.”

“And?”

“And, when I discovered I had been tricked, I was furious. I was determined to find a way out of it, and when I could not, I…tried to make one.”

Sarah winced. “How did that work out?”

“I was bedridden for a week,” he said wryly. “I was foolish and impulsive and very, very stubborn.” He smiled at her, not a smirk this time, but a smile with real warmth in it. “Sound familiar, Sarah?”

She laughed a little, turning back around and settling into the tub. “For my will is as strong as yours,” she recited wistfully. “And my kingdom as great.” She was going to go on, but as the next words came to her lips, her smile fell. When she spoke again, she could not keep the edge out of her voice. “I guess you do have power over me now though, huh?”


	11. Empty

He did not reply. She turned and looked at him—his face was blank, and he kept his eyes on the fire, not meeting her gaze.

“Why is that?” Her voice sounded thin and fragile, and suddenly she was aware of just how tired she was, how numb and exhausted. “I mean, I know I made the bargain and everything, but really—how could this happen? I was an idiot at fifteen; I hardly knew what I was doing until I did it. I couldn’t have planned my way out of paper bag. How could I be so powerful then, powerful enough to stand against you, and now be so…” she stopped, swallowing against the lump that was forming in her throat. There was a tightness in her chest, and she sensed with growing anxiety she was losing her grip on the conversation. She was no longer sure what she was trying to do—was she still just digging for information or was she after something else?

She did not expect him to answer, but after a moment he did. “There were rules,” he said softly, still avoiding her eyes. It was hard to read the tone of his voice. Pensive? Apologetic? “Traditions that had the be followed, customs observed. Laws obeyed.”

“I never took you for someone big on rules and laws,” she said, unable to prevent a touch of contempt from slipping into her voice. 

He looked up at her, frowning. “As usual, there is much you do not understand,” he said sharply. He leaned against the back of the chair, draping his arms sullenly over the armrests. “The bargain is not the only magic capable of binding.”

_That_ was interesting. She tried very hard to keep the flicker of excitement off her face as she considered what she could say next to needle him into making another revelation.

“Then I guess if it weren’t for that,” she said, lowering her voice accusingly. “Little fifteen-year-old me wouldn’t have stood a chance. You wouldn’t even have bothered taking Toby or making me run your Labyrinth; you’d have just flown in through my bedroom window and taken me.”

His expression had turned aloof and he continued to stare into the flames, refusing to meet her eyes. He was ignoring her, she thought, the same way he would a whining, petulant child. Her cheeks flushed with shame, then anger. A distant warning bell sounded in her head, and the more sensible part of herself whispered to her that she should take care, that it would be dangerous to provoke him too ____, but she narrowed her eyes and ignored it. What right did he have to dismiss her like that?

“And what would you have done with me?” she continued indignantly, her voice rising. 

He did not answer; his face was frozen. The only response to her question that she could detect was a slight, arrogant lift of the chin, which infuriated her. As the anger swelled in her chest, a plaintive voice that she was ashamed to own as part of herself began pleading with her that he was being nice for once, actually nice, and she was so tired. Shouldn’t she just leave it alone? 

For a moment, she was tempted to listen, but another glance at his imperious expression and her anger came surging back. She didn’t care about what he thought or what he might do, she was going to make him answer.

“Well? What would you have done with me if you could have gotten your claws into me back then? Would you have even let me grow up before you—”

“I would,” he snapped suddenly without turning to look at her, sounding like he was speaking through gritted teeth, “have made you the same _generous_ offer that I made you after your run; that I made you two weeks ago.” He turned to face her, his voice softening. “That I will make you even now.” 

His eyes bored into hers, his face no longer aloof but warm and open. She looked away.

“Very tempting,” she said, trying to conceal her discomfort with sarcasm.

“Isn’t it, Sarah?” His voice had turned silky, seductive. “You could do whatever you liked, have anything you desired.”  
  
At least that was one trap she could see coming. She glared at him. “In exchange for what—the privilege of being beholden to you for the rest of my life? Of being _ruled_ by you?”   
  


His mouth twisted. “Don’t be childish.”

She bristled. “Oh, _please_. We both know that that’s what it would be—only an idiot, a young, inexperienced, _stupid_ little girl could have ever believed that she was just as powerful as you.” The corners of her eyes were prickling and she blinked quickly as she continued. “No matter what you say, you just want me under your thumb.”

“Is that really so detestable to you?” he asked, his voice bitter. 

“Yes!” she said hotly.

“Even though I have promised to give you everything you could ever want?” he asked. His expression had softened, and the fervent energy in his voice was not anger any longer, but something else. “Even if I swore it by my life and my kingdom and bound myself to whatever oath you devised?”

She couldn’t look at him anymore, not while he had that hungry, expectant look in his eyes. The look that could turn so, so quickly into rage. She turned to look at the fire, wracking her mind for words that could make him understand, hoping on some level that if he did then everything would sort itself out somehow and be alright. “Jareth,” she said softly, almost kindly. “The things I want most you could never give me.”

He said did not reply. She sat anxiously in the slowly cooling bath, waiting for him to react, but he said nothing. A tense silence stretched out between them, and as it went on and on it seemed to Sarah that the air around them was growing thick and heavy, harder to breath. She had to stop herself from trying to gulp it down, and concentrated on taking slow, even breaths. She didn’t dare look up at the Goblin King for fear of what she might see in his face. Her anger was waning, fear creeping up her spine in its place. She wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shivering.

“I never asked for this,” she said, hating the small, helpless way the words sounded in her ears.

“Yes, I know,” he said, cruel and sarcastic. She could hear the sneer in his voice. “It’s not _fair_ , is it?”

“Stop it!” God, she was such an idiot—as if anything she could say would make the slightest bit of difference to him. She hadn’t even managed to learn anything that would make this complete travesty of an evening worthwhile. She blinked back tears as she kept her eyes stubbornly fixed on the fire, determined not to let him see how much she had let him get to her. It had almost burned down completely; only the one blackened, shriveled log remained intact amidst the bed of snowy white ashes. Its underside glowed faintly as it was licked from beneath by tiny, almost transparent little flames. 

“You complain about fairness to me,” he said suddenly, and Sarah flinched at the anger in his voice. “I have exhausted my strength, stretched the limits of my power beyond what anyone ever thought possible—you have no concept of what I have risked! I offer you your dreams, your every desire, I pour out my heart to you and you dare to sit there and throw it back in my face as though it meant nothing!”

“Oh, please!” she spat, hurling the words at him. “Get over yourself. You might have convinced yourself that you love me, but all you really care about is yourself!” She could not stop the tears now, they were streaming down her face, but she pressed on, the words seeming to tumble out of her mouth of their own accord. “If you felt anything for me, anything _real_ , if you actually gave a damn about what _I_ wanted, I wouldn’t even be here!”

His eyes had narrowed to thin, angry slits, the line of his mouth had stiffened, becoming set and cold. She was already terrified of what the consequences of her outburst would be, already wondering how he would make her feel the pain she was inflicting on him, but it was already too late, and anyway she could not stop. She gestured at the tub, at her wracked and aching body. “Look at what you’ve done to me! You want me to love you? How can I? Even if I did care about you, which I _don’t_ , how could I ever possibly trust you enough to love you? You’re a monster!” 

As those words left her mouth his eyes widened and his face slackened before freezing in an unreadable expression. He no longer seemed to be looking at her, or at anything in particular. As she clutched the side of the tub so hard her knuckles ached, waiting in fearful anticipation for his reaction, that sniveling voice rose up inside her again, louder than before, clamoring her to take it back, to apologize, to plead. To say or do anything that would convince him not to do whatever he must be thinking about doing. She choked back a sob and turned away, shrinking back against the tub and covering her tear-streaked face with shaking hands, her skin crawling with the certainty that any second she would feel his hands on her, yanking her out of the bath.

Seconds ticked by as she sat there, trembling. A minute passed, then another. Nothing happened.

Sarah lifted her hands cautiously and looked up. Startled, she half rose in the tub—the chair was empty. She turned, quickly scanning the room, but could not see him anywhere. The only sounds in the room were the sloshing and dripping of the bathwater as she moved. He was gone. 

She was alone. 

Sarah shivered; the air in the room was cold on her wet skin. She saw that the last log in the fire had finally collapsed into pale red embers that shimmered and glowed weakly in the dim light.

When she moved to duck back under the water for warmth, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Something had appeared by the end of the tub, by her feet—a tall, thin stand made of bronze. Hanging on it was a folded length of white cloth—a towel? Beside it was a robe made of some kind of thin, dark material.

Cautiously, still shivering, with one more glance around the room to make sure she was alone, she stood, peeled off her wet clothes, wrapped the heavy woven cloth around herself, and stepped out of the tub, and winced. The afterglow from the spell he had cast on her had faded, and her limbs ached keenly, the same way they did after a hard workout or a long night tearing down a set, but more intense. She moved slowly, drying herself before the fire, then taking the robe—it was buttery smooth under her pruned fingers, and she guessed it was silk—and wrapping it around her body, catching her wet hair up in the towel and winding it into a turban on top of her head. She rolled up the sleeves of the robe before leaning over the tub and carefully wringing the water from her t-shirt and leggings and hanging them on the bronze stand, which she moved closer to the fire. 

She went about these small necessary tasks in a dreamlike haze that she attributed to her exhaustion, completing each slowly and methodically before moving to the next. When she had finished, she turned to the chair where the Goblin King had been sitting. She looked around for the book he had been reading, but did not see it anywhere. Wherever he had gone, he must have brought it with him.

She shrugged mentally before curling up in the chair, tucking her feet underneath her and arranging the robe so it covered her completely, then wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her head into one of the wings, staring into the dying fire. She should have felt triumphant. She’d driven him off! He’d retreated from his own bedroom and left her in peace. And, now that her fear had passed, she remembered that even if he did want to hurt her, he wouldn’t be able to. But strangely, she did not feel as though she’d won anything. In her belly, where she should have felt the warmth of pride, of satisfaction, there was instead an emptiness, a hollow, cold feeling that leeched the warmth from her skin and drained her of energy. 

Her mind kept returning to the expression she had seen on his face before he had vanished—had his eyes widened in anger or surprise? Had there been a look of sudden realization, even hurt, that had flashed across his otherworldly features before his face had gone so carefully blank? Sarah stared at the heap dying embers, unable to shake the nagging feeling that she had done something wrong and too utterly drained to question it. Burrowing deeper into the soft velvet upholstery, tucking her feet more tightly underneath her, she sighed heavily and settled for ignoring it. It was not difficult; she could not remember ever feeling so tired, and despite the chill in the room it was not long until her eyelids grew so heavy that she could no longer keep them open. Almost immediately after she closed her eyes she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep and when she finally woke the following evening she was in her own bed, back in her apartment, alone.


	12. Unwinding

It was late—or, rather, it was early. Sarah sighed contentedly, melting back into the pockmarked and torn vinyl cushions of the booth as her body hummed in time with the music. She hadn’t moved since Shanna had deposited her there…oh…however long ago they’d arrived at The White Room.

The White Room was where they always seemed to wind up at the end of the night. It was a dive bar—a _real_ dive bar, and not some trendy, “hipster hideout.” The plaster walls were not artfully chipped away in strategic places to reveal the original brick. They were coated in a layer of Kelly-green paint that was barely visible under the thick layer of nicotine residue and graffiti that preserved it. The bar stools and booths were not minimalist pieces made from old iron pipes or reclaimed wood. The stools were made cheap, riveted metal, rickety and badly stained, and looked like they belonged on a construction site rather than in an establishment where people ate and drank. The booths were ancient constructions of plastic, particle board, and vinyl. The cushions were torn in places and patched with threadbare duct tape. A few of the booths were missing seats entirely, and in their places the owner had placed yellowed, profoundly uncomfortable molded plastic chairs that he had bought at auction decades ago, some kind of strange cross between lawn furniture and something you might find at a school. No two were exactly the same. Despite the name, Sarah did not think that there was anything white in the entire building, and so far she had not spotted any obvious tributes to or associations with Eric Clapton either. 

It mostly catered to a dwindling group of grizzled locals, almost entirely men, most of whom had grown up in the surrounding neighborhoods. Far from going out of its way to try to attract new customers, most of the bartenders were openly hostile to anyone they didn’t recognize. Sarah and her friends were grudgingly tolerated because John’s father had been a regular before he died, and most of the older men there had known him. 

It was not a popular bar, even during peak hours—and therein lay the attraction. This late at night, they practically had the back of the bar--and the pool table--all to themselves.

Plus the drinks were insanely cheap, and when you were trying to live on a server’s pay and save money at the same time, that was not something you could afford to ignore. 

It was just the six of them by the pool table: Sarah, mellowing in her booth, while Becca and Erin played against John and Brennan, with Shana standing by nursing a whiskey sour and scrolling through her phone, eyes narrowed in irritation.

Sarah smiled as she settled back against the booth, enjoying the complete lack of pain that came with the movement. This night was exactly what she needed. The last few days had been pretty rough. When she’d awoken a few days ago, the morning after her latest adventure in the Underground, she had been worried that she wouldn’t be able to get out of bed. Whatever spell the Goblin King had performed on her must have healed most of the damage—she didn’t want to think about what the bargain’s curse must have been done to her body that night—but it did not leave her completely free of pain. It had taken several minutes of stretching, ibuprofen, and a long, hot shower before she had been able to dress herself. Once she’d gotten up and moving the pain was more manageable, but work, with its constant bending, stretching, and lifting, had been a trial.

And even worse than the pain were the nightmares. She never remembered the details--thank God--but for the last two nights she found herself jolting awake somewhere around 3am, screaming and slapping frantically at her body, trying to put out imaginary flames that she was convinced were consuming her. As if she wasn’t already having trouble sleeping. Her landlord had called her earlier today to inform her that her neighbors had complained about the “loud noises” at night, and she’d had to make up a story about night terrors and assure him that she was seeing her doctor about it.

At that thought, she grinned and fingered the little bulge of pills in her pocket, twisted up in the corner of a plastic baggie. She hadn’t heard what Becca’s friend had called them—it had been very loud at Central, and the exchange had been fast—but he’d promised Sarah that they would “chill her out” and help her sleep. Sarah sighed contentedly as she nestled back into the ancient vinyl. So far, she had no complaints.

And at least her misadventure with the bargain wasn’t likely to happen again. She’d completely destroyed Debbie’s dreamcatcher almost immediately upon waking up that morning, hacking it into pieces with her tiny, lethal-looking fingernail scissors. She’d taken the pieces with her to work and tossed them into the dumpster behind the café, not even wanting to take the chance of having the pieces anywhere in her apartment.

She’d also spent a long time that morning staring at the charms and amulets that littered the walls of her bedroom, at the increasingly dingy-looking lines of salt that were starting to blur with the lines of sand in her window sills. She’d been given unequivocal, visceral evidence that at least some of these charms were actually capable of doing something. It couldn’t just be the dreamcatcher. 

So what to do? On the one hand, she was strongly tempted to tear them all down and destroy them, just to be on the safe side. On the other, they hadn’t done anything to interfere with the bargain before—and they might actually be doing something, offering her some kind of protection. In the end, she decided that the safest option would be to leave everything as it was. She had no idea what she was doing. It was better not to take any unnecessary risks. 

A cry of dismay cut through the background roar of the music and Sarah jumped, her eyes flying open. But it was only John, holding out his arms incredulously and berating a blushing, shamefaced Brennan. A glance at the table told her that Brennan had sunk the cue. Erin was giggling and doing a little triumphant dance as she watched Becca, eyes narrowed in concentration, placing the cue back on the table and lining up her shot with the steady precision she never seemed to lose, no matter how drunk she got.

Sarah closed her eyes and leaned her head back, smirking. This was the first time that Shana had invited Brennan to go out with them. She’d apologized to Sarah about it that afternoon, explaining that John had insisted.

“He says he’s sick of being the only guy, and none of his meathead friends can go out during the week,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

Cleary Shana had her doubts about John’s motivations--and Sarah did too. Ever since Brennan’s crush on Sarah had become apparent, John had appointed himself the younger man’s champion. Sarah honestly did not know what drove him more—his pity for Brennan, or his love of messing with her.

“Aw, throw him a bone Sarah,” John had teased her one night. Brennan had been working bar, and he had gotten more and more miserable each time she had picked up a drink order without looking at him. “Our boy’s in love!” The one and only time Sarah had ever been written up was for what Randy had overheard her say to John in reply.

“I made him swear that he’s not planning anything,” Shana continued. “What do you think? It’s completely up to you. Say the word and I’ll tell him to fuck off; we could have a girls’ night instead."

But honestly, with everything that had been happening lately, Brennan barely even registered. She’d been far more concerned with whether or not Becca’s friend would come through that night with the pills. “It’s fine,” she’d told Shana, shrugging as she hefted her drink tray. “I don’t care. He’s harmless.”

Sarah opened her eyes again, curious to see what had become of the game—but the pool table had been abandoned. John was now busy orchestrating what looked like a jousting match between Becca and Erin using their pool cues and a couple of little square scooters they had found, the kind used for moving furniture. Sarah could see a pile of them in a back corner, near several precariously high stacks of plastic chairs. Shana was standing off to the side, reluctantly playing lookout, alternating between laughter and anxious scolding. Brennan was next to her, grinning—and, to Sarah’s surprise, seemed to be calling out advice to Erin, who was giggling so hard that she couldn’t hold her cue straight. Sarah didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so animated—at work he was practically mute, speaking only when absolutely necessary and sometimes not even then.

In the beginning it had been funny, Brennan’s crush on her. It was something for Shana and John to tease her about when Sarah snuck away for a few minutes to join them on their smoke breaks. She’d even joked with them that she would go out with him for a few dates--if he ever worked up the nerve to ask her. He was younger than her, only a few years out of high school, but he was cute in a shuffling, gangly sort of way. Just a few dates—enough time to smooth out a few of those rough spots, teach the boy to stand up straight when he walked, how to dress himself without making himself look like scarecrow, boost his confidence a bit, and then Shana could set him up with one of her dozen cousins or maybe one of the younger waitresses at the café. 

But weeks went by and Brennan never made a move. He was, if anything, even more awkward around her than he had been when he was first hired. Sarah was at a loss as to what to do about it. Brennan’s distant pining was something she’d never experienced before. She’d never had a problem telling guys when she wasn’t interested, but, well—he hadn’t expressed an interest in her, exactly. How was she supposed to initiate that conversation? It seemed pretty arrogant to walk up to somebody and tell them that it was obvious that they were into you, but it wasn’t happening. Besides, he was so pathetic. One night, when she was cranky after staying up late the night before for an audition, she’d gotten fed up with finding his eyes on her every time she looked up and she had snapped at him. He had flushed beet red, muttered something apologetic at his shoes and didn’t say a word to anyone else for the rest of his shift. She’d felt like she’d kicked a puppy.

More than a month had gone by like this before Shana had pulled her aside and told Sarah that she needed to do something about it.

“It’s getting out of hand,” Shana said. “When you two are on the floor together he gets so spacy that even the customers notice. Last Tuesday someone sent the same drink back _three times._ They had to comp the whole ticket. Randy blew a gasket—I thought he was going to deck him.”

“So?” Sarah had asked, irritated at what she was pretty sure Shana was implying. “That’s his problem.”

Shana took an impatient pull on her cigarette and exhaled. “It’s _everyone’s_ problem. Pissy customers don’t tip, and Randy’s not going to fire anyone until inventory’s over—not when we’re already shorthanded. Look, no one’s saying this is your fault—”

“They better not be!”

“ _But_ ,” Shana stressed. “You _are_ the only one left who might be able to do something about it.” She took another drag. “ _I_ couldn’t get one word out of him, and you know Debbie’s tried; I asked John to talk to him, you know, man-to-man or whatever, but he just told him a bunch of weird bullshit about ‘how women think.’ I think he made it worse.” 

“So what do you want me to do?”

Shana waved her cigarette in a noncommittal gesture. “I just think you should wait for a slow night, corner him, and have it out. Call him out for staring, make him tell you how he feels, I don’t know—clear the air.” She looked at Sarah pointedly. “Try to get it over with before inventory—Randy’s going to be insufferable enough as is.”

Grudgingly, she had agreed to try. But a few nights later her teenage nightmares had become a reality, and after what she had gone through “The Brennan Problem” did not rank very high on her list of priorities. 

A loud crash startled Sarah halfway out of her seat. Her eyes flew open, and she was certain the sagging ceiling must have finally caved in. But no—Brennan, who must have joined in on the jousting while she was zoning out, was scrambling up off the floor, bent over laughing and still holding a pool cue, and moving towards John, who had apparently crashed into one of the several precarious stacks of old plastic chairs stored along the back wall. Pieces of chairs were strewn all around the floor around him; a few had shattered into tiny pieces like glass, the plastic grown so brittle with age that it had not been able to survive the impact. Sarah snorted with laughter, then clapped her hands over mouth, giggling helplessly.

There was a commotion at the bar, and she turned. Uh oh. While she could not hear the bartender’s shouts over the music and her friends’ laughter, his face was very red. Several of the regulars were also yelling in their direction, and the ones who weren’t were snickering.

She saw Shana giving her the hairy eyeball as she grabbed John and tried to drag him up off the floor; Erin and Becca were already headed for the back door. Well, time to go home. She was starting to sober up anyway. She peeled herself off the booth and quickly fell in behind her friends, snagging what was left of Shana’s drink and downing it as they all hustled out.

“I can’t believe you Brennan!” Shanna huffed as they stumbled out into the alley. “The _one night_ I invite you out.”

“Don’t listen to her dude,” John wheezed, clutching his sides, “Oh man, that was epic. I think I broke a rib!”

Erin and Becca were clutching each other and giggling.

“I’m sorry,” Brennan said, somehow managing to sound genuinely apologetic while laughing.

“It’s not like it was your idea,” Sarah said serenely. She might be sobering up, but she still felt pretty damn good. She reached into her pocket and hefted the small baggie there for reassurance. More than enough to get her through to next weekend. She could have one of them every night if she wanted and just melt off to sleep without a care.

“Oh, that’s great,” Shanna snapped. She was rummaging through her purse as they came out onto the street. “Choose _this_ moment to take his side.” She sighed in disgust. “Goddamn it, I left my cigs in there.”

Becca and Erin were already leaving, waving careless goodbyes as they set off down the street towards their apartment.

“Don’t worry baby,” John said, sidling up to Shana. “I’ll get you another pack. Gas station’s still open.”

“Whatever.” Shanna flicked her eyes over to Sarah. “I’m gonna take off—you ok?”

“Yeah,” Sarah said, in that same serene voice. “Don’t worry about me, Shana-banana. I’m fine.”

Shana hesitated. “We should walk back with you,” she said uncertainly.

John tugged at her arm. “Naw, babe. Sarah’s fine—and she’s not by herself. Brennan will make sure she gets home ok.” He made what he probably thought was a surreptitious thumbs up at Brennan.

Sarah and Brennan looked at each other quickly—he lowered his eyes and shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 

Yesterday she would have balked at the thought. But tonight he had seemed different--more like an a regular guy with a personality than just a scared little boy. Besides, she knew all she needed to do was scowl in his direction and he would immediately come up with some flimsy, stuttering excuse to leave—or just disappear without saying anything. 

“Yeah,” she told Shanna. “Brennan and I will walk home together. I’ll be fine.” Maybe it was time for them to have that talk.

Shana still looked doubtful, but she allowed John to pull her along down the street.

“Text if you need anything,” she called.

Sarah waved in acknowledgement. Then, without turning to see if Brennan followed her or not, she set off down the street towards her apartment.

They were on the edge of the trendy part of downtown, a solid thirty-minute walk away from her apartment. They walked the whole way in silence, the two of them hunched over against the sharp bite of the early autumn morning. To her surprise, Sarah did not find it all awkward. While a quick glance at Brennan’s face revealed that he was likely engaged in a tortuous internal debate about what, if anything, to say to her, she knew that he expected nothing of her. There was no need to be on her guard, to watch his face, weigh the level of anger in his voice and quickly calculate what she should do or say next. She could relax. He was so wrapped up in his own uncertainty that whatever she did, whatever she said, he would accept it as the unquestionably correct thing to do or say in that moment. 

The feeling of power that knowledge gave her was intoxicating.

When they reached the enormous, ancient house that was her apartment building, instead of talking with him out on the stoop she held the door open for him on an impulse. He looked at her, so transparently surprised that she almost lost her nerve and told him to take a hike. 

She led him up the old, creaky stairs and down the narrow hallway to her apartment, one of six within the massive old house, and stood there, facing him. The air was full of the peculiarly present quiet of the early morning; in the dingy hallway the air smelled of dust and the hot metal of the radiators. Sarah knew that she either needed to have “the talk” with him now, or say goodnight. End the poor boy’s suffering. But she couldn’t seem to find the words. They stood in front of her door for what felt like ages, Brennan’s face glued to his shoes. 

Finally, he looked up. “Here you are,” he said nervously, affecting a casual smile. He made no move to leave.

“Here I am,” she echoed faintly. Her buzz was fading, leaving her feeling strangely hollow and insubstantial. Now was the time—whatever she was going to say to him, she needed to say it now.

But still, she couldn’t find the words.

“Well,” he said finally, with false cheerfulness. “See you at work.”

He turned to go, and without thinking, she grabbed the front of his jacket, yanked him back until his body was pressing against hers, raised herself on tip-toes, and kissed him.

It wasn’t a shy peck on the lips—it wasn’t even a flirtatious good-night kiss. It was thorough, shameless, and—she was still a _little_ drunk—a bit sloppy. At first, Brennan stood there frozen, but after a moment or so he got over the shock and began to kiss her back enthusiastically. He placed his hands on her shoulders, seemed to hesitate, then lightly placed them on her waist, as though he did not really know what to do with them.

When she finally broke for air, both of them were panting. Brennan was looking at her with mingled terror and elation.

She took a deep breath, trying to think of something to say to explain what she had just done, something that would make everything make sense and return the world to its proper state.

“See you at work,” she blurted out. She turned quickly to hide her flaming face, unlocked the door to her apartment, and closed it behind her without another word. As she listened to the sound of Brennan’s steps walking down the hallway, down the stairs, she dug the baggie of pills out of her pocket, pried open the tight knot, and took two. After a long, hot shower, she climbed into bed and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

She slept soundly—no nightmares—until well past noon; when she finally did wake up, she just barely had time to get herself ready for her evening shift.

“Sorry I ditched you with Brennan,” Shanna whispered to her during the dinner rush that night, as they passed each other on the floor. “Hope it wasn’t too painful.”

Sarah forced a smiled. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“Did you get a chance to talk to him?”

Sarah looked over Shana’s shoulder towards the bar, where Brennan was filling pint glasses with a small, stupid grin on his face. She considered her options carefully, and decided to go with technical honesty. “I did.”

Shana looked back towards the bar just in time to see Brennan almost drop someone’s drink as he was handing it off, spilling about a third of it on the counter—but instead of panicking and breaking into a litany of frantic apologies, he only shook his head, laughed, and refilled the glass. Sarah couldn’t hear what Brennan said to the customer as he handed the man his drink, but the guy was chuckling as he returned to his booth.

Shana turned to Sarah, her eyebrows raised. “Damn. Good job,” she said, before bustling of to one of her tables with her full tray of drinks.

As Shana was leaving, Brennan looked up from the bar where he was wiping up the beer he had spilled and caught Sarah’s eye. Hesitantly, he smiled. Sarah froze.

A loud crash from the kitchen made them both jump—it sounded like someone had dropped a tray of dishes. While Brennan’s attention was distracted, she quickly turned away and headed for the kitchen to check on her orders.

***

The realization didn’t hit her until she got home. As she blundered through the door, sore and aching and impossibly tired despite sleeping nearly the whole day before her shift, it struck her that her three days were up and tonight was the night that the Goblin King would come for her again. She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, closing her eyes and fighting tears of exhaustion.

What was she going to do?

She lurched towards her bedroom. She couldn’t think right now—she needed something to clear her head.

She grabbed the bottle on her nightstand and took a long, hard pull, gasped for breath, then took another. Sitting down heavily on her bed, she leaned against the wall, relishing the way the liquor burned all the way down her throat to her stomach. 

She hadn’t eaten much that day, and almost immediately she felt the familiar rush of relief spread through her body, making her skin tingle. Sighing, she slumped against the wall.

Ok. So this wasn’t great. Not even a little bit. But she could handle it. She took one deep breath, then another, repeating those words over and over until the fog hanging over her mind began to lift.

What was she going to do? Well, if she was honest with herself, there didn’t seem to be much she could do. There was no puzzle for her to solve, no one to befriend who could help her. This wasn’t something she was going to fix through sheer stubbornness, the way she was propelling her fledgling acting career. So, what else was there?

She took a thoughtful sip from the bottle, just enough to feel the burn in her throat again, and considered. 

There had to be something. He couldn’t be holding all the cards. If he was, she would be down there right now, in his bedroom or on his arm, a mindless sycophant addled by one of his crystals, hanging adoringly on his every word, or whatever his sick fantasy for her entailed. She wasn’t, and that meant that there had to be something down there that was on her side. Some rule, some force, maybe even some _one_ must be holding him in check. And if there was, that meant—she hoped—that there was a way out. A way out of the bargain, a way to protect herself from him, maybe even a way to take him down.

She shuddered at the thought, taking another sip from the bottle. So, back to the original question: what was she going to do? Sarah tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling, her forehead creasing in frustration. She didn’t have a clue.

And that was it. She sat up. Of course she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know anything—or she didn’t know enough. She needed information—and the only place she was going to get it was from the Goblin King himself.

She remembered everything she had managed to get out of him last time, in the fifteen or so minutes of conversation they’d had before it had all gone south. She’d learned more about the Underground in those fifteen minutes than she had during all the rest of her time there combined.

That was what she had to do—keep pumping him for information. How?

Immediately she dismissed the thought of seducing him. Not only did the prospect make her skin crawl, but he wasn’t an idiot. It was pretty unlikely that he would buy her jumping his bones out of nowhere when she had spent the last three visits alternating between crying and reaming him out. 

She would have to hope that it would be enough for her to be…nice. _Pleasant_ , he would probably say—hell, he had outright told her that that was what he wanted. So that’s what she would do. She would ignore the fact that he was basically kidnapping her at least twice a week, forget about his violent outbursts, tolerate his titanic sense of entitlement and his patronizing solicitude. She would be his friend, and, in the friendliest manner possible, pump him for every scrap of information she could wring out of him.

She would try, at least.

Could she do it? She didn’t know. Despite being an actress, she had never been very good at lying. It just wasn’t the same. Growing up, she’d barely been capable of fooling her father—and despite being a successful personal injury attorney, he had been hopelessly naïve when it came to his daughter. She’d _never_ been able to pull one over on her step-mother. Karen could always tell. She would give Sarah a look, a long, piercing stare, looking as though she was peering up at her over a pair of imaginary glasses, and say, “Alright Sarah. If you say so,” and Sarah’s façade would crumble, and she would lose all heart to follow through on her schemes.

Her “Intro to Theater” professor had called acting “the art of living truthfully under imaginary circumstances.” That had stuck with her, because it seemed to explain why it was all different when she was on stage. She wasn’t lying—she just became a different person. When she was off stage, she didn’t know how to be anyone other than herself.

Well, she was going to have to try. She narrowed her eyes. Surely if she could get through that insufferable shampoo commercial last year—which had never even aired!—she could handle this. She needed to create a character, that was all. Someone who was just like her, but with a much flimsier backbone. And maybe selective amnesia.

She took one last, long gulp from the bottle. At this rate she would almost certainly still be drunk when she arrived Underground, but right now it was hard to see the downside in that. She took another nip for good measure before closing the bottle and heaving herself up off her bed and stumbling to the bathroom. She needed a long, scalding hot shower.

Before she went to sleep, she grabbed a legal pad from her desk and jotted down everything she could still remember about her previous conversation with the Goblin King. She ripped off the pages and tucked them in the drawer where she had put her description of the bargain and its conditions.

When it was done, she combed her long, damp hair back into a low ponytail and dressed herself in jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers instead of pajamas, and told herself as she climbed into bed that she was ready for anything.


	13. Moon

_Oh the moon, the moon smiles sweetly at me_

_And the teeth grinning through the trees_

_And he riddles and rhymes and he measures the time_

_It takes you to fall asleep_

_So I’ll turn the whole world into liars_

_Just to start a new truth_

_And at first it’ll sound like a fable to me_

_But not so much to you_

_And then we both can live together_

_In perfect harmony_

_And we’ll never bring up the question_

_Where oh where is reality?_

_Oh the moon, the moon smiles sweetly at me_

_And the teeth grinning through the trees_

_And he riddles and rhymes and he measures the time_

_But you’re already asleep_

“Lullaby” by Pepper Proud

***

When she woke under the heavy blankets to the smell of woodsmoke and cold silk, she did not get up right away. She breathed deep, trying to center herself the way she did before a show. _I am not afraid_ , she told herself, trying to get into character. _I am not angry_. _I am…_

What was she?

Sober, for one thing. Despite all the vodka she’d pounded before going to bed, she couldn’t feel even the faintest glimmer of a buzz. Instead, anxiety was already beginning to twist in the pit of her stomach just from being in that room, on that bed. Despite the bravado she’d felt when she was sitting at home, safe in her own apartment, now that she was here all she wanted to do was pull the blankets over her head and pretend this wasn’t happening. 

But that wasn’t an option. Sarah opened her eyes and glared up at the dark canopy that hung over his bed, concentrating. What was she? What _should she be_?

_I_ am _afraid_ , she decided. _Because he expects me to be. And I’m angry too, at least a little, because he knows I am._ She frowned. _But I have to be more than that,_ she realized. _I’m…_

_Receptive._

That was it. That must be what he was hoping for the most, what he would be most eager to see in her. Any sign that she was warming up to him, just a little. It shouldn’t take much. A little hesitation at just the right place in the conversation, a curious look before quickly turning away, maybe even a laugh. Nothing she couldn’t handle. 

She sat up cautiously, scanning the room. She didn’t see him at first; he was sitting on the floor by the dying fire, lounging against the stone wall, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent. His head was tilted far back, so that if his eyes had been open he would have been staring at the ceiling. He hadn’t noticed her yet—it was possible that he was sleeping.

The door was closed, and almost certainly locked. Briefly Sarah wondered if it would be worth trying it—she could wander the castle in search of information instead of dealing with him. Not likely, but worth a shot if she could make it. Carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet, Sarah swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Ah, _Sarah_.”

Her head whipped around. The Goblin King had not moved from where he sat, but his eyes were open and he was smiling. There was something different about his face; his smile lacked his usual irony, and his face was drawn, almost haggard looking. His shaggy, chin length hair hung limply around his face, and his eyes lacked the lively edge of mockery that always seemed to be lurking in them. They were lined with silvery-blue circles, as though he’d barely slept in the three days since she’s seen him last. 

She set her face in a frown. She had to be on her guard; she couldn’t forget how the sheer force of his personality seemed, magic aside, to be able to bend reality to his will. It would be so easy to get sucked in, to be drawn into his wake, to forget the terrible things he had done simply because _he_ never seemed to remember. 

Abruptly she realized that she hadn’t greeted him back--she was just standing there, staring. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, feeling foolish. It seemed too late to speak now. She expected him to quip something sharp at her, “cat got your tongue,” or at least muster up a sneer—but, to her surprise, he didn’t. He only sat there, his smile drawn tight across his face. After another moment of awkward silence, his smile twisted and he turned away from her. He rose from the fireplace, stretching and adjusting his clothing with sharp, precise movements. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, studying his pants as he brushed off an invisible layer of dust. “As I recall, even with the spell, there may have been some lingering effects.”

“Fine,” Sarah said, fighting the urge to fidget. She leaned back against the mattress and slipped an arm around the slim, smooth to steady herself. “Fine—still a little stiff and sore in the mornings, but it’s getting better.”

“Good,” he said. “Good.”

They stood there in silence for a moment, neither of them saying anything.

Sarah shifted her feet awkwardly. “I certainly haven’t been bedridden,” she added, referring to the story he had told her about his own broken bargain.

“No,” he said quickly. “I did not think it would be that bad—you did not push it nearly as far as I did.”

There was another awkward silence. He shifted from foot to foot, looking as though he had something to say but not saying. Finally, he seemed to work up the courage.

“There is something I would like to show you tonight,” he said, looking at her keenly, as though afraid she might refuse.

Awesome—a chance to start building some goodwill. “Alright,” she agreed cautiously.

“It’s outside the castle.”

_Even better_. More brownie points, and she would get to see more of the Underground. She tried to look taken aback, as though the thought of leaving the castle alarmed her. “I—” she faltered.

“It’s not far,” he said quickly.

She hesitated for another beat. “Well—alright, I guess.”

He smiled--a warm, genuine smile that reminded her suddenly of the strangely domestic moment they had shared the previous night, while she soaked in the bathtub and he read by the fire, chatting amiably—before it had all gone wrong. For some reason, she felt her face grow warm. Panicking, she inwardly cursed herself for blushing, then quickly decided to take advantage of it by looking away, as though she were embarrassed.

“Wonderful,” she heard him say, and something in his tone of voice made her turn back sharply—just in time to see the crystal he had flung in her direction.

There was no time to dodge—she closed her eyes and shrieked, raising her arms uselessly as though to ward it off. As it hit her, she felt a warm, tingling sensation surround her, enveloping her from the neck down. When it reached her toes, the tingling faded as quickly as it had come—but the warmth remained, and with it she was suddenly aware was a pronounced feeling of weight, of heaviness. She opened her eyes, looking down. 

She was dressed in entirely different clothes.

She raised her arms, pushing back the heavy, fur-lined cloak that now cascaded down from her shoulders to brush the floor. She was wearing at least two dresses, one a dark, rich brown that laced up the front, cut in long, form-fitting panels that hugged her waist and hips and swelled gracefully into a floor length skirt. The broad V-shaped neckline of the brown dress was so low that even Shana would have thought it was indecent, but luckily it was layered on top of another dress made of thin, white material that covered her halfway up to her collarbone and peeked through the gaps between the lacing in the front. Instead of sneakers, she now wore ankle-length leather boots with thin soles that felt almost like moccasins.

Her heart still pounding in her chest, she glared at him, her face hot with anger. “What the _hell_ was that?”

He blinked, clearly surprised by her reaction. “It will be cold where we are going,” he said stiffly, almost defensive. “You needed warmer clothes.”

“And you just decided you’d, what?” she snapped. “Magic me some?” Worse than that, he had basically just undressed her with his magic. She would swear that the ghost of that awful tingling feeling was still crawling against her skin. Abruptly, she realized that she was no longer even wearing underwear. She clenched her fists; she wanted to scream.

His eyes darkened and his lip curled. “Would you have preferred I set the goblins to spinning and weaving?”

“Very fucking funny, Your Majesty,” she snapped, feeling foolishly like she was about to cry. “You didn’t even _warn_ me.” She wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself, hating the alien feeling of the thick, unfamiliar fabric under her fingers, against her body. “What happened to my clothes?” she demanded.

The sneer was back in his eyes, full force. “Why? Were you attached to them?”

She opened her mouth for a scathing retort—then closed it again before she said something that would make the evening completely unsalvageable. _Stay in character_ , she reminded herself, trying to unclench her teeth. This wasn’t why she was here—this wasn’t how she wanted the night to end. Still scowling, she turned away from him and studied the tapestries, trying to calm herself down.

She realized she was clutching fistfuls of the skirt in her hands and tried to relax her hands. As the material of the gown slipped through her fingers, she couldn’t help but marvel at the elegant drape of the skirt, how thick it was despite the fineness of the weave. She’d never worn anything like it. Rubbing the fabric between her fingers, she guessed it must be entirely made of wool. When she was in college, they’d had some costumes made of wool mixed with cotton or synthetic fibers, but not many—even wool blends were usually outside their budget. The cloak, too, she realized, was also made of wool, gray-green and lined with creamy white fur. Along its edges there was an intricate border of complex knots embroidered in silver thread, matching a similar, smaller pattern along the neckline and sleeves of the gown. Certainly, they were warm; already she was almost sweating despite the chilliness of the castle.

“Do you like them?” he asked. He no longer sounded irritated as he had been a moment ago.

“Yes,” she said honestly, running a hand over the silky soft fur of the cloak. “They’re lovely.” She was realizing just much they suited her own taste. These colors, these cuts, the subtle richness of the fabrics and design—they were just what she would have chosen for herself. Did he know that? She looked up, and tried to ignore the expectant expression on his face. _Receptive,_ she thought. _Give him hope._ “Thank you,” she said.

Apparently, that was good enough. He smiled another warm, honest smile, and held out his arm for her to take.

“Shall we?”

***

She had forgotten how unsettling it was to be transported by him. The sudden, whirling absence of gravity flung her stomach into her throat and made the hairs on her body stand on end. It was only a fraction of a second, but when they landed it took her a moment to get her bearings. She clung to his arm, taking deep breaths and placing a hand over her stomach as though trying to force it back into its correct position.

As she recovered, she began to gradually take notice of her surroundings. The first thing she noticed was that they were outside. Despite her warm clothing, a sharp wind blew her hair back and chilled her cheeks. It was very dark, but there was an enormous full moon, and so many stars—more stars than she had ever seen before in the night sky. Together, they gave off enough light to see by, and by the time that all her organs had finally settled back in place, Sarah found that she was facing a forest. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the shapes of huge, craggy trees looming in front of her, the trunks thicker than those of any trees she had ever seen. They must have been very, very old. Between their immense trunks grew a thicket of smaller trees and plants. The shadows between the trees seemed to swallow up what little light there was, and Sarah could only see a few feet inside. She doubted that daylight would make much difference—it seemed impossible that the sun could penetrate such a dense canopy. She thought of fairy tales, of Hansel and Gretel lost in the dark, searching in vain for pebbles, and shivered.

“Not a chance,” she said flatly, backing up a few paces. “I’m not going in there.”

She heard him scoff behind her. “Perceptive as ever,” he said wryly.

She turned, a sharp retort on her lips, then gasped and reeled back. She was standing at the edge of a yawning precipice—inches from her feet the grassy turf fell away to a steep slope of craggy boulders and gravel and then, several yards down, dropped away to nothing. As she staggered back the Goblin King moved behind her and she felt a cautious hand encircle her waist, steading her.

“Don’t be foolish,” he said, but his voice was gentle. “I will not allow you to fall.” He reached over her shoulder and pointed a gloved finger. “Look there.”

She followed his hand and gasped again, putting a hand to her mouth. 

Beneath them, the Labyrinth glowed.

They up very high, at the top of a large hill, or perhaps a mountain. Far off in the distance Sarah could see the castle. The perimeter was brightly lit with many torches, and each long, thin window had a lamp burning in it. But the Labyrinth—oh, the Labyrinth! It was a reflection of the night sky itself, lit with thousands of tiny lights perched along the top of its thick walls. They were carefully arranged—closest to the castle, they clumped thickly together so that she could hardly tell where one light began and the other ended—they almost appeared to be a line of light. The further away from the castle, the more thinly spaced they were, each tiny flame glowing bravely against the darkness that loomed outside the outer walls. Sarah followed the bright, meandering paths with wide, astonished eyes.

“What do you think?” he murmured, close to her ear.

“It’s…it’s beautiful.” The mist from her breath curled in the air as she spoke the words, her voice hushed with longing. If she dared to wish for anything at that moment, she would wish to be down there, within those glowing walls. She wanted it so badly she could feel the yearning in her body, a strong tugging from deep within in her heart. “Beautiful,” she repeated.

He moved closer to her then, putting his hand on her shoulder. “I thought you would appreciate it,” he said softly.

Startled at his touch, she looked up; he was gazing down at her with such naked admiration that it made her nervous and she quickly looked down unable to stop herself from pulling away. Quickly, he removed his hand.

“Shall we sit?” he asked, his voice more formal, more distant.

Relieved that he did not sound angry, she turned back to see that he was offering her one hand and gesturing with the other in the direction of the forest where were two small piles of cushions arranged on a large blanket several feet from the treeline. Off to the side was a large, wrought iron candelabra that held seven lit candles, each as thick as her arm. The candles cast a warm, yellow glow over the cushions and the covered tray that sat in the center of the blanket. Opposite the candelabra, a tall, steaming iron pitcher sat on a grill over a brazier filled with glowing, dark red coals. Two silver cups were arranged on a smaller tray beside it.

_This is a date_ , she thought, and felt foolish. Of course it was—all her “trips” to the Underground, she realized suddenly, had been dates. This was just the first one that was going according to plan. It was also the most extravagant one so far: the clothes, the display of lights in the Labyrinth, and now some kind of midnight picnic. 

She looked back at him, studying him. She saw the tiredness she had seen earlier—the deep shadows under his eyes, and the droop in his shoulders. But there was something else there—an expression in his eyes that she wasn’t used to seeing. Something uncertain, almost vulnerable. The way he had looked at her when he had offered her that final crystal ten years ago. Not just a date, she decided. It was too elaborate. An apology?

She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. It was bizarre, an otherworldly distortion of something out of a cheesy romance movie. Still, she was certain she’d hit upon the truth—and it suited her purposes. What better opportunity to put him at his ease, to convince him that she was warming up to him?

“Alright,” she said with lowered eyes, satisfied with the hesitant note in her voice. She met his gaze and gave him a nervous little smile.

He smiled back.

_It could be worse,_ she thought as she took his hand and stepped onto the blanket, looking back regretfully at the twinkling lights. A keen wind blew through her hair back from her face, and she suppressed a shiver. _It could be a lot worse._

He plopped unregally down on the cushions, sitting as carelessly as he had sat by the fireplace, with one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent, slouching back lazily and supporting himself against the cushions with an elbow. Sarah lowered herself cross-legged onto the cushions opposite him; she decided to keep her body language close and cautious, folding her legs underneath her and keeping her arms close her body. It wasn’t hard; despite the warmth of her clothing, the night breeze was freezing her ears.

He was looking at her with concern. “Are you warm enough?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered quickly. “Yes, I’m fine.”

He looked at her doubtfully. “Your cloak has a hood,” he said. 

“Oh.” Sarah reached back and found that he was right. “Thank you.” Feeling a little foolish, she pulled it over her head—it was huge, and lined with fur like the rest of the cloak, and divinely warm. As she fumbled with the cloak, trying to wrap it tighter around herself, she was delighted to find that it had pockets on either side of the hem in the front, also lined with fur.

“Wine?” 

He was offering her a steaming cup.

“Yes,” she said firmly. Despite the vodka she had drunk earlier that night, she had been stone-cold sober when she awoke in the Underground. It would be nice to take a little of the edge off, at least.

They sat for some time in silence. Sarah cradled the warm silver in her hands; she had no idea what to say, and anyway she should probably be following his lead. Instead of talking she looked out over the Labyrinth, studying the way the paths twisted and turned on each other in a strange, chaotic pattern.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed faintly. She drank some of the wine; it was the same sweet, spicy brew he’d given her earlier, the night they’d made the bargain, and the delightful warmth of it quickly spread through her whole body, all the way to her fingertips and toes, granting her some courage.

“What time of year is it here?” she asked. It definitely wasn’t summer, but beyond that it was hard to tell in the dark. 

“Late autumn,” he said. “Nearly winter—less than a month until Yule.”

“It’s a little earlier Above,” she said. “Still a few weeks until Thanksgiving.” Then she felt foolish—of course, he probably knew that already.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Our calendars are always closer together just after Samhain. Our weather too. Something about the thinning of the veil seems to align things.”

“Really?” she said politely. 

“Yes.”

_T_ _his must be the mystical equivalent of talking about the weather,_ she thought, taking nervous sip of wine. There was another silence. The Goblin King tipped his goblet back and drained it before leaning forward and taking the lid off the tray, revealing a few small dishes.

“Something to eat?” he asked.

More eager for something to do than actually hungry, Sarah held out her hands obediently, and he filled them with a mixture of nuts and whole dried fruits that smelled sweet and heady. Her mouth watered and, delighted, she munched. The walnuts were candied and richly spiced with cinnamon and cloves, and the fruit was a mix of figs and cherries that tasted strongly of red wine, as though they’d been poached in it before being dried. It was all very good.

“The moon is lovely,” she offered, gesturing to the full silver orb between mouthfuls. “It’s still just a little sliver back home.”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s something that never seems to match, no matter what night it is. The moon is always different.”

There was another silence. Sarah began to panic as she chewed, eyeing her remaining handful of food, wondering how long she could make it last. Surely she couldn’t be expected to talk as long as she was eating. Was the whole night going to be like this? How was she going to get any information out of him with all this boring small talk? She wracked her brain for something to say. 

She stared up at the perfectly round silver moon, larger than any she had ever seen. “It’s supposed to make people crazy,” she blurted out, immediately regretting it.

He frowned. “What is?”

“The moon,” Sarah said, taking another sip of the wine to hide her nervousness. “The full moon.” Down here in the Underground the idea seemed to make a lot more sense to her than it ever had before—but maybe it was just the wine.

He was looking at her with a sardonic smile on his face. “It’s just something people say,” she said quickly. “A superstition. It doesn’t really work like that.”

“Ah,” he said lightly, a glint coming back into his eye. “I see. Like the charm your friend gave you—no more than that.”

“No—I—” she stopped, flustered. He was smirking at her. She glared back, and answered loftily: “I don’t think so.” She took a drink of wine to steady herself. “I mean, I’ve certainly never _known_ anyone who…you know, went crazy. Just from the moon.”

He smiled darkly. “I have.”

She waited, but he did not elaborate, only turned his eyes to the night sky, his expression unreadable. She took another sip of the wine, more nervous than thirsty. Finally, he took a long swallow of wine and turned back to her. 

“And how is your family?” he asked.

Sarah stiffened. “Fine,” she said, her tone guarded. What was he trying to do here?

“Your brother…Tobias, was it?”  
  


“Toby.” She could not keep the edge out of her voice. “He’s fine.” 

He frowned, clearly guessing the reason for her curt responses. “No need for concern,” he said, sounding affronted. “I have nothing more than a polite interest.”

_Oh, of_ course, she thought sarcastically. _Can’t imagine why I would be so suspicious._ Outwardly, she tried to look mollified. It couldn’t hurt to tell him a little. “He’s fine—doing really well, actually. He’s in sixth grade this year.”

“And your parents…your father, your mother?”  
  


“My father and step-mother are fine,” Sarah said carefully. Although relations between them had thawed long ago, she still couldn’t bear to call Karen her mother. 

She expected him to get angry, or at least pout at another minimal answer, but instead he looked intrigued.

“Forgive me,” he said. “And your mother, she…?”

Why did he keep pushing when it was obvious she did not want to talk about it? She stared at the brazier “I don’t want to talk about her,” she said, not bothering to conceal her irritation.

She immediately regretted the harsh words; his face closed off all at once, like door slamming shut. After a moment of silence, he turned to the brazier and refilled his winecup from the steaming iron pitcher.

Sarah looked miserably down at her own half-full cup. What was she supposed to do? Did he expect her to bare her soul after a new dress and fancy light show?

That gave her an idea—if he wanted to know more about her, she didn’t have to tell him for nothing.

“But,” she said, catching his eye and making her voice light and wheedling. “I might anyway—for a price.”

That got his attention. He leaned forward, his eyes eager with an almost childlike curiosity.

“A price?” he said, in a casual tone she saw through immediately. 

She grinned. “Yup. I will answer—” she considered, and decided to go with the fairy tale classic, “ _three_ more questions about my family if you agree to answer three of my questions about your own.”

He smiled devilishly. “Another bargain?”

“No!” she said quickly. “No more bargains. Just a—an arrangement.” She hesitated, then added, “Between friends.”

He tented his fingers, doubtful. “And how do you plan on enforcing it?” he asked. 

She thought for a moment. “Simple. If you weasel out of it, I won’t speak for the rest of the night.”

He raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “Oh, you won’t?”

“Nope. I’ll just sit here, staring at you and eating your food.” To make her point, she stared directly into his eyes, very carefully placed a single walnut in her mouth, and chewed slowly and emphatically.

He turned away, and she thought for a moment that it had been a bit too much. Then he spoke, and she could hear from the excited catch in his voice that she had him.

“I’m not accustomed to “paying” for conversation,” he said.

“Well, I can’t have you weaseling out of your half of the conversation,” she said, smirking. “It wouldn’t be _fair_ for me to go on answering all of the questions.” _We’re flirting,_ she thought, a little alarmed. _I’m flirting with him_. Would he buy it? Had she gone too far too soon?

But he was smiling widely. “Very well. Which of us will go first?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading; hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think of my interpretations of Jareth and Sarah.


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